Officials were late to the scene, as always, long after the dust settled, long after the public restrained the goons, or what was left of the ill-fated villains.
Their boss was out of commission and alive only thanks to Ouroboros' energy-rich environment. The rest were concussed and lured away to the point of true dumbness—unable to form a proper sentence or even remember their birth names.
The public might have gone overboard, providing them with too many suggestions, which could further distort their memories.
Ouroboros fixed major injuries, but their momentary concussed state jumbled their minds beyond repair—or so the healers believed. After all, this was the first time they had witnessed such a case. The Lure would usually spirit away the evidence before anyone could obtain a sample.
Even the crime scene would have mysteriously vanished if it weren't for the 'Eleant Grass' present in the hotel.
Hem, as always, had a unique analysis and questioned the obvious:
"Why were a bunch of Mystarchs after Orin?"
Someone had cleared the area, leaving no clues behind, yet a single star-shaped hole in the ground was enough for Hem to realize the specific Mystarch group behind the attack.
"Wraithspine," Hem muttered, dismissing the goon boss as their leader with a single glance. "No real boss as usual..." he noted. "Is he still in pursuit of Orin?"
A dreadful feeling latched onto Hem's mind.
He analyzed the situation more closely, dismissing the idea after finding six broken Zappence loops scattered around the battlefield.
His previous experience told him this group worked in squads of seven or fewer, yet...
"You've underestimated the wrong kid, Marrowbane," Hem chuckled as he collected the seventh wristband.
Hem placed his badge over the fake goon boss and chanted, "Le mien," making him—and the cases about to follow—fall under their precinct's jurisdiction.
"First come, first served," Hem said, taking the time to teach the twins.
The twins kept recording every detail, following Orin's instructions even when he wasn't present. This made Hem mentally place Orin as a team member. His team.
"When facing the Mystarch group of Wraithspine, remember," Hem said, making a rough drawing of the Brooder mystica vomiting a skeletal maze around the star imprint. "The relic they possess, and their leader, isn't the one barking orders—it's the silent one, the one out of place. Only go for a full-scale attack if you think you can handle the real boss." He lectured them, only noticing Orin's guide trailing them when she raised a hand.
"Mystarch?" the Pyxen woman asked, curious about the new word.
"Bad Wanderers," said the twins, trembling at the mere thought. "Very, very bad."
Hem shakes his head—his disgust almost palpable. "A title we gave to some groups strong enough to overthrow a kingdom."
"Groups!?" she asked skeptically.
"Seven," said Jorek.
"That we know of," added Jorik.
"Each group has access to one of the ancient mystica from the First Era," Hem clarified. "And they want everyone to either sacrifice themselves—to bring back their god—or only worship their god. Again, in the hopes that it returns."
"Bringing back the terrors of the First Era," the twins muttered, hugging each other and trembling. "Talk about crazy!"
Hem ignored the twins and bowed to her. "Thanks for interfering. More than anything, I'm glad you aren't harmed. Please step away, though, and let me know if I can take away some of the Pyxen chief's wrath. This..." he gestured around, "is unexpected. Not their style. I'm guessing a batch of recruits," he added, looking at her warily, unsure of his deduction. "The Pyxen chief shouldn't make a move because of this transgression."
Hem hesitated, yet asked a favor, "At least not against us. This isn't your fight, nor are the Mystarchs dumb enough to challenge the chief in your territory. Something went wrong—Terribly wrong."
The Pyxen woman looked around at the destruction and sighed.
"Zee has them now," she said with a shrug.
"Nothing either of us can do," she assured, making Hem drop the subject.
"So… are their bodies morphed? Do they have relics? Power passed down by their patron? Ancient mystica? Access to its mysticism? Or a greater connection to the one true source?"
She listed out a couple of things and received a simple nod from Hem.
She stared blankly at Hem for a long while, realizing too late that the nod meant all of the above.
"You know!" She raised her hand, furious, pointing at Hem with all five fingers.
"A simple nod isn't what one expects for such..." She controlled her rage, slowly curling her fingers back into a fist.
"I was angry at myself for leaving," she continued, her voice low and hurt.
"But it seems I wouldn't have been much help anyway. Worse, I might've been in the kid's way."
She wanted to ask Hem about Orin's 'mystic warfare' skills, but decided against it, not wanting another simple nod.
"Mystward," the twins answered, making her sigh in relief.
She didn't require a definition for that title. They all knew the Mystward.
And every Pyxen remembered their chief's orders to steer clear of that madman.
If the kid had even one-tenth of his skill—
"Orin is his kid," the twins added, worried by her silence.
—He's fine.
She shrugged away the stupid thought, a smile creeping onto her lips.
Relieved to see her posture relax, Hem asked, "Can I know the time... since Orin was left on his own?"
"I can handle my Agora, don't worry," she smiled. "I'm also the second guide—the one who taught the kid the Pyxen step... if you forgot."
"Really!" Hem was shocked. "Sorry, it's hard to remember. We must have crossed the three-day mark."
"Ah! The Lure, yes!" she smiled. "That kid has an uncanny eye when he wants to... Now I know why. No wonder he remembered."
Her smile broke into a low chuckle.
"I tell you this to make you feel at ease. I crossed much worse lines by teaching the kid our way of avoiding the Lure, though it may have saved his life today!" She paused, staring into the distance as she slipped back into her thoughts.
She didn't like doubting herself, especially not at times when her children learned from copying her every action.
"Not now!" she told herself, suppressing the memory of her chieftain's lecture.
Did she realize why the chief was furious when she taught a kid their sacred stepping method? Yes!
Would she ever admit her mistake? Never!
A Mystward would've found another way with little effort, she told herself, mentally noting the point for any future arguments.
"Ahem," Hem coughed into his hand, forcing her back into the present.
"Kid, five minutes," she said absently. "There's no point in searching if you haven't found him yet. The Lure has got him, and only he shall decide what's to happen to the boy's fate."
"He?" Hem asked.
She snapped out of her daze, gave Hem a simple smile, and stepped into the mist—vanishing.
"She 'Really' didn't like the way you smiled."
"Not—" Hem opened his mouth to correct the twins, then decided it wasn't worth the hassle, and turned back to the investigation.
Many mysterious events had piled on top of each other since Hem had gloated to himself about solving a simple, boring murder case.
The latest was for a Pyxen to remember a Wanderer's name.
Her recent miracle of giving birth might explain her impulsive, emotional state, yet that didn't account for the unique hold Orin seemed to have on those he truly wanted to connect with—be it Mystica, Wanderkind, or Ouroboros Zee itself.
"Hormones!" Hem cursed.
Deep within Ouroboros, surrounded by its Lure, a kid cursed himself rather than blaming his failures on the Lure.
"Smart people often make the dumbest mistakes," Orin muttered, smacking himself for forgetting the healing properties of Ouroboros.
"Could've played it much safer." He looked around: the allure of Ouroboros no longer so welcoming.
A step away from the unknown, and a step closer to losing control—that is where fear lies.
It lies in wait to claim its price.
Orin had become that price after a long time, never once assuming he would return beneath its grasp—not since the day he claimed control over every minute detail of his life—the day he lost everything that mattered.
The day he discovered his ultimate goal in life.
Orin remembered the Pyxen guide sitting down when he had claimed to be lost—a unique way he had never seen any other Wanderer sit.
Imitating yet another Pyxen technique, Orin went low to the floor, cross-legged, without doubting the process or his intuition, because deep down he knew: half of mysticism lies in belief.
Reality, shaped by one's will.
"Wanderers," Orin chuckled, losing focus for a moment.
How could he stay still after figuring out the reasoning behind his ancestors' naming their species?
Four walls kept information trapped, whether due to assumptions created within one's mind, manipulation by a superior (parent, teacher, government, royalty, or god), or the relatively simple stagnation caused by laziness.
These walls also kept information from entering, turning the space into a hypothetical well where knowledge was gathered at the cost of wisdom.
Many hurdles—yet a single solution: Wanderer.
A traveler moves, witnesses, relates, and is forced to grow through experience—through life.
A constant cycle of trial and error, where ideology keeps changing. Keeps growing.
Whether they like it or not, the essence of wandering was forced growth.
And by naming their species 'Wanderers,' his ancestors had forced future generations to wander about, witness, connect, absorb, and grow—perhaps to a point beyond the gods.
His ancestors were centuries more advanced than the current generation of Wanderers, simply because they wandered.
"Centuries? No! Eras advanced," Orin corrected his reasoning.
"In all fairness, they were born in a time when magic was rich, palpable," he tried to justify his incompetence.
The four kingdoms—and the four walls they surrounded themselves with, in the name of protection and salvation—could never find true peace.
Stuck inside a maze of walls—from the four walls of a kingdom to the four walls of one's house—how could they ever relate to their neighbor, let alone any distant Wanderer?
Different experiences led to different conclusions. Hence, the rise of conflict.
The struggle to prove one's reasoning as the ultimate truth.
But what if everyone's experience was based on trying to understand the other? Then, would there be any reason for conflict? Or would there be a collective mind, focused solely on overcoming the problem at hand?
Orin had no clue why he, for the first time ever, dwelled on something as mundane as wanderity. Maybe it had to do with Hem's questions.
Or Nostaw's infuriating comeback.
Either way, Orin smirked, rubbing his nose with pride.
"Mundane species. Mundane problems."
And he had come up with such a mundane solution that it solved all their problems.
"Why is it taking so long for the four kingdoms to figure this out again?!" he said, genuinely baffled.
Well, he re-discovered the solution his ancestors had already discovered. Yet the pointless search kept happening, and the four kingdoms kept pouring massive resources into solving a problem they were already named after.
They hired or trained Oracles, searched for mythical markets, waged wars, pissed off mystics—and Aurochs knows what else.
Never once thinking to be true to their damn title.
Wanderers!
Orin cursed and moved on to something—anything—that wasn't comprised of his own species' stupidity.
He perched beneath a tree and crossed his legs, each foot positioned on the opposite thigh, soles facing skyward. The position pulled on his hamstrings, straightened his back, and nearly locked him in place.
Perhaps that was the point, Orin mused, cupping his fingers to form a closed lotus, then closing his eyes to complete the pose.
He nailed the form with ease, thanks to his flexible body. Yet another advantage of his tail.
Now what?
He had no clue what came next.
Wait with a blank mind?
Or focus on changing topics every thirty-second window?
Orin chose the latter, first focusing on refining various aspects of his mystic warfare by replaying and simulating different alternatives from the previous fight.
"Thanks, bud," Orin muttered, petting his tail, finally having time to thank the mystica for all the help and heavy lifting she had done throughout the battle. Without her, he would've been dead the moment the goons absorbed the Pyronyx ore.
"How long did it take them to mine that?" Orin clicked his tongue in disgust. "Such a waste... well, except for that boss guy. He..."
Orin couldn't shake the image of Greg turning into a Half-Obelith.
If nothing else, he was sure—that's how their race came to be.
He would have lost the boss battle if not for the tail—and many other aspects—playing in his favor. Of course, using every asset at one's disposal is a crucial step in mystic warfare. But so is eliminating the lucky encounters that occur within a battle.
There had been many such instances during his fight.
Once Orin gathered his thoughts and replayed the duel: lack of knowledge, a too-calm mind, generalist mystica, or just clever use of simple mystica—the list went on, showing all the areas where he could—should—improve.
"Thirty!" Orin finished counting and shifted topics.
"That damn goon used the belt in ways I never thought of." He scolded himself. "I mean... I did improve on it at the end, but learning something brilliant from an idiot is still infuriating."
Even a flickering light, in its last moments, can show us the path ahead, Orin reminded himself after spending thirty seconds inventing new insults for the goon's boss.
"Thirty!"
He shifted focus to Greg and his lucky escape. Without the mountain's help, that fight might have turned ugly real fast.
"Not boss level yet," Orin noted. "Not... even... mini-boss level... Hmmm. I'll give it another year since their kind isn't much of a problem." He finished some rough mental calculations. "If the main boss is twice as strong as the mini one, and improves at a constant rate... then four years to beat them! Two, if they stagnate -- which is more plausible."
"I can't wait to be eleven," Orin said, grinning, before changing topics again.
While Orin had access to a massive whispkeep tucked inside his head—an infinite reservoir of topics to keep him busy until someone found him (if they were even looking)—one subject forced him to exceed the time limit he had set to escape the 'Lure.'
It stole all his focus, made him lose track of time, and allowed the Lure to inch closer.
His immediate goal: to find a use for the mystica Whimzle before they were deemed too expensive to care for and went extinct.
There were several reasons a god—or something close to a god—could go extinct.
Orin chuckled, remembering a pen pal from long ago, who once claimed the most obvious reason: a god-versus-god fight.
In anger, the pen pal insisted that gods were omnipotent beings.
Orin, without missing a beat, demoted the mystic's status to demigod, winning the debate—and driving away the sponsor.
Unlike the instant solution he found for all of the Wanderers' problems, Orin puzzled over the plausibility of an omnipotent mystica going extinct for weeks.
In Orin's defense, he had been five at the time.
Orin classified the 'One True Source' as omnipotent, basing this on the scientific principle that energy is neither created nor destroyed. The rest being quite self-explanatory for the dunce of the dunce. Everything was edging closer to that source of power he labeled as "gods in the making."
The closer one got, the stronger they became. For example, the phoenix and the other ancient mystics from the First Era were the ones who had gotten the closest.
But with power comes risk.
You didn't have to be a genius to realize the difference between pure energy and the messy, blended forms of energy contained within lifeforms.
A simple rock, for example, was made up of multiple energies: holding its solid state, maintaining its structure, keeping its components in balance, and Aurochs knew what else.
One method to grow in strength was to focus on mastering a single aspect of all the energies packed into an entity.
"Or brute force the fundamental laws of energy to create a result," Orin joked to himself. "Ah… I crack myself up!"
Ridiculous notion aside, Orin pulled up examples of mystica to support his thesis.
The phoenix, for instance, tapped into their inner flames to such an extent that anything they set their sights on would burn, fuel or no fuel.
"But that's beside the point," Orin muttered, adding the note to his mental whispkeep.
Similarly, Brooders had a strange fold of space tucked inside their bellies.
His tail granted full access to any physical body.
Aevyrion moved through dimensions.
Veloxine tapped into pure speed.
Fluttra and Zilthari connected minds across distances.
Resonix touched the core of sound.
Sparkles bent light.
Camlyth manipulated sight itself.
Znox influenced temperature.
Grumvoks? Simple weirdos.
Ethekuls? Permanent stoners.
Aurochs? A mystery.
The Arachnivis he had left behind were artists of shadow, weaving information through the void, which Orin hoped would clarify Hem's doubts about the fight.
"Speaking of artists…" Orin recalled the Quenara's portrait.
It was the first time he'd used such a chant—and while the portrait was magical, it wasn't nearly as flawless as the ones he'd seen at the Carnival.
That bothered him.
He had tried barging into the Carnival, which Hem had forbidden, so he hadn't informed the stupid Sentinel during their bonding about what he found suspicious.
"For a discerning eye, discern the smugness on that stupid wall, Hem Stupid Lock," Orin muttered, trying to lash out.
His tangled legs and coiled tail held him trapped in place, though.
"No bubblepede can help you now, Hem Lock. Camlyth's skin has covered your eyes…"
Orin's jaw dropped, realization striking like a baton's blow.
Frantically, he ripped open his jacket, digging for the terra-something—the Sentinel's notes on Hem's failed case.
According to the Whisper Leaf: The Vanished Execution.
The room had been locked from the inside with no broken windows, hidden passages, or signs of forced entry.
Every entrance sealed.
Every key accounted for.
The victim lies lifeless, wounds still fresh—yet no weapon is found.
The blood pools undisturbed, untouched by any hurried escape. No footprints in the dust. No displaced furniture.
The only fingerprints belong to the deceased.
No trace of an Ornyx at work.
Walls tell no tale. Air holds no whisper of intrusion.
A perfect crime without an exit.
A killer without a path.
A death that defies escape.
"Camlyth's skin!" Orin blurted, the answer snapping into place. "Forbidden. Impossible. Diabolical. But plausible!"
"Forty!" a part of his mind warned—counting the seconds he'd set to avoid the Lure's pull—but he ignored it, circling the revelation like a hawk.
Orin had a way to solve Hem's unsolved case. One Hem Lock himself couldn't crack!
He rubbed his hands together, giddy. And not just the old case—their current one too, while Hem was busy chasing some missing child!
The absurdity hit him only when he opened his eyes.
"Ah, crap…"
He cursed for a solid minute before dragging himself back to the omnipotent topic he'd abandoned earlier.
It had always been this way: just him and his thoughts: The life of an introvert.
Others might've gone mad from such isolation, but Orin didn't comprehend the depth of his misstep. It had been over a day since he got lost, and another decade wouldn't have made a sliver of difference to him.
Introverts were overthinkers, sure, but they didn't need company to stay occupied. They carried entire conversations in their heads, their worlds humming along without anyone else.
As for the omnipotent puzzle, it didn't take Orin long to stitch it closed.
Mystica were creatures a step closer to the 'One True Source.' They could access and perform feats that Wanderers needed ores and carefully constructed Ornyx even to attempt.
If the theory held: that the closer you got to the One True Source, the harder it became to control the other energies you weren't concentrating on—then a wise creature would trade raw power for survival.
Mystics were wise.
Wanderers were not.
This was the actual reason why Mystica had shifted over the eras, from awe-inspiring magical beings to creatures that Wanderers could manipulate.
Sure, they could still shred humans to kingdom come—but that wasn't the point.
They had learned from their ancestors: Step back from the brink of power. Focus on survival.
And by doing so, they gave Wanderers the breathing room to chase the One True Source for themselves, climbing closer to that mythical state of omnipotence.
This was also the reason most mystica, deemed useless to Wanderers, went extinct.
First, we hoarded the resources essential for survival, already breaking the natural cycle of life. Later, in their weakened state, if Wanderers do not pamper them, they slowly wither, dying from hunger, overpowered mystica, or the many horrors of Wanderlust.
Thanks to the relics left behind by ancient mystics, and our hoarding skills that could give dragons a lesson, Wanderers had risen to become the dominant sWanderlustWanderlust—no debate about it.
And with the Whimzle—mysterious and useless to Wanderers—they would soon join the ranks of the extinct, unless Orin could somehow make Wanderlust profitable.
Adrenaline surged through Orin's veins, despite the calming presence of Ouroboros. Until a single thought shattered his hype: "Since when was all of this common knowledge?"
His mood dropped faster than a Znox's influence, anger flaring at the restrictions placed on him—those unseen walls closing him in.
He opened his eyes, defeat heavy in his gaze.
After a deep breath, he slumps back against the tree, waiting for the Lure to close in. He had no way of telling how long he'd been lost in thought before giving up on the last thing he had hoped would come true.
Shadows danced among the branches above, like they were late for work.
"Will the solution even reach anyone if I figure it out?" Orin wondered bitterly. "Can't I save one mystica before it's all for nothing?"
A snap of a twig broke the stillness. Orin's thoughts snapped back to reality.
Was it the Lure, about to twist him deeper into its grasp? Or was it a wild mystica, looking to turn him into a meal?
His curiosity piqued, Orin brushed the grime off himself and ventured deeper into the unexplored planes of Ouroboros.
Hidden among the twisted trunks, Orin watched, wide-eyed with awe and delight.
Never before had he seen the Whimzle so unguarded—so carefree in their joy.
Their playful antics filled the clearing with an energy that was both subtle and enchanting, unlike the usual eerie silence of Ouroboros.
The Whimzle weren't hiding secrets. They were just the biggest introverts in Wanderlust—even more so than Orin himself realized.
In the twilight heart of Ouroboros, Orin had found a hidden glade, shimmering with an unexpected mirth. Here, a groWanderlustzles—usually timid and cloaked in shadows—were in full play. Their spiky, patterned forms danced beneath the soft, dappled light.
Suddenly, one brave Whimzle snapped a delicate quill with a sharp crack, and with a mischievous flick, it traced a glowing line across a companion's flank. The pattern shimmered and writhed, as though ink were flowing of its own accord, alive with possibility.
"Wanderer theories are so off," Orin muttered under his breath, biting back a chuckle. "Shifting ancient markings, my ass!"
Startled by the unexpected artwork, the marked Whimzle sprang to its feet with a trill of playful defiance, its eyes glinting with mischief. Without hesitation, it dashed off, the unmarked Whimzle hot on its heels. The two frolicked through the glade like spirited children, their quills trailing ephemeral streaks of shifting color in the air. It was a wild, carefree game—an expression of pure joy.
Orin, his curiosity piqued, crept silently behind them, following the vibrant trails they left in their wake. As the chase deepened, it led him further into the heart of the wilds, until the trees opened to reveal something utterly breathtaking: a cavern carved from fractured obsidian. The stone caught the fading daylight, scattering it into a kaleidoscope of colors, like a shattered prism—The Prismvault. A hidden nexus, where ancient magic met the raw beauty of nature.
With a final glance at the Whimzles, their playful trills echoing fizzling away behind him, Orin stepped into the cavern. The laughter of the Whimzles mingled with the resonant hum of the crystal walls. In that moment, Ouroboros revealed itself not as a dark, foreboding place but as one full of mysteries and subtle enchantment.
He moved with caution, each step measured as his fingers grazed the smooth, bone-white crystal walls. The faint, ink-like glow pulsed beneath his touch, vibrating with the energy of ancient forces. The scent of damp earth filled the air, mingling with something strange, something sweet—like morning dew mixed with the soft musk of centuries-old wood. The further he ventured, the more the environment seemed to hum with life, as though the very cavern itself was alive.
Then, the cavern opened wide, and Orin's breath caught in his throat. Before him stretched a natural bridge of intertwining roots, suspended over a village unlike anything he'd ever imagined.
This was worthy of the title: The Pyxen village.
Towering, twisted trees formed the backbone of the settlement, their trunks curling into hollowed igloo-like homes. The bark was smooth, polished as if sculpted by careful hands, glowing with bioluminescent veins that pulsed from within. Massive woven nests hung suspended between thick branches, like floating huts, swaying in the unseen air currents. Knotted vines connected these nests in a delicate web, moving like cradles, rocking in the windless quiet.
But it was one particular tree that caught Orin's full attention. A variant of a mystic tree—something he had only read about in passing, never before seen. Instead of roots trailing down into the earth, this one poured with streams of crystal-clear water. The liquid cascaded in looping arcs through the air, suspended as though gravity had been rewritten. The water flowed as if alive—its course dictated by an unseen force, as graceful and fluid as the wind itself.
Some of the Pyxen stood beneath the streams, reaching up to let the flowing water spiral around their hands before it vanished, returning to the shimmering ribbons that hung in the air. The water pooled in delicate basins woven from vines, forming luminous pools that reflected the soft twilight.
Orin stood in stunned silence, watching the delicate ballet of water and light, his heart racing with the realization of how far he'd journeyed—into a world that most Wanderers had long forgotten. A world that, like the Whimzles he witnessed, existed at the edge of understanding. A place no one would find, as no one wanders anymore.
The Pyxen themselves were as otherworldly as their home. They moved with a strange, ethereal grace, their feet never quite touching the ground, their presence as light as whispers. Their cloak-like fur rippled in the air, shifting in color depending on their movement.
Orin had only glimpsed a Pyxen once before—a shadow disappearing in the mist of Ouroboros—but now he was surrounded by them, watching, whispering, studying him with curious yet unreadable expressions.
A few children darted between their homes, skipping across the suspended water streams as if they were solid, their laughter high and echoing.
One of them stopped, her large, luminescent eyes locking onto Orin. She tilted her head, then scampered forward, stopping inches from him.
"You walk like the heavy ones," she said, her voice lilting, like wind through hollow reeds.
Orin blinked. "The… heavy ones?"
She nodded, tapping her fingers against her forehead. "The ones who think too loud. Talk too much!" She caught her head, as if the effort of two simple sentences had nearly overwhelmed her.
A low murmur passed through the Pyxen crowd, some nodding, some chuckling in their soft, breathy way.
Orin exhaled in a controlled, calm breath. He had spent his life learning how to move unseen, to step lightly—yet here, among the Pyxen, he might as well have been stomping like a lost Mammoth.
Something about this place—it didn't just defy the rules of nature. It rejected them altogether. And Orin had the sinking feeling he was only beginning to understand what that meant.
He nodded at the girl, not having a clue what the nod was supposed to mean. Hopefully, it spared her the effort of formulating more words.
Guess doing one makes the other hard, he thought, nodding to himself, while still nodding at everyone else.
"The Agora... am I pronouncing that right?" he finally asked, still bobbing his head. "Dude never found me, so I guess I came looking for him. Or her. Or it...? Anyone here speak non-nod?"
"I do," said a familiar voice, saving him. "Please stop nodding. It's weird."
A Pyxen woman appeared, holding his head still.
"Sorry! I guessed one or the other would get through."
"Neither does. Let me take you to -- what's the word? Chief! Of our little village."
"May I say how beautiful your village is?" Orin offered.
"You may," she said—and waited.
They stared at each other in awkward silence as they made their way toward the Agora, the village chief.
"That was the entire expression," Orin clarified at last.
"Oh! I wasn't aware. I was waiting for the compliment," she chuckled.
"Took me a while to figure that out, too," Orin chuckled along.
Agora's sanctum was unlike the other Pyxen dwellings—it floated, suspended within the heart of a colossal, hollowed-out tree, its interior dim yet humming with a soft, shifting light.
Orin couldn't comprehend how a light wave behaved like a sound wave. But again, he couldn't understand anything else, so he shrugged and focused on absorbing every minute detail.
The walls were woven from living roots, pulsing as if carrying the whispers of the forest itself. The floor was not solid, but a surface of flowing mist—dense enough to walk on, yet rippling with every step, revealing glimpses of the unseen depths below.
Above, the ceiling stretched like the inside of an outstanding shell, its surface embedded with countless glimmering shards—not stars, but fragments of memories, frozen in time. They flickered occasionally, showing faint echoes of past events, though never long enough to fully grasp.
At the far end of the sanctum, Agora sat upon a throne of entwined branches, shifting and curling subtly as though adjusting to his presence. Behind him, a waterfall of suspended water cascaded upward instead of down, vanishing into nothingness.
The air in this place was thick with knowing—an atmosphere that pressed against Orin's skin, making him feel as though every secret he held was being unraveled and read like an open book.
Here, time did not move as it should. Here, reality itself bent to the will of its keeper.
A loud thud!—a blunt wooden strike against glass—shattered their laughter.
"No wonder the kid got familiar," said an ancient, yet calm voice.
Agora moved away from his throne, resting on his staff instead —a piece of swirling wood as ancient as oak, which enveloped his entire body with a mysticism beyond that of mystica.
He was the oldest being Orin had ever perceived—a step away from being claimed by whomever the Pyxen worshipped. Ancient yet ageless. His cloak kept shifting like a shadow caught between worlds. His skin mirrored bark, cracked and lined with veins of silver light. Eyes like pale eclipses held the weight of countless years, unreadable yet knowing. His limbs moved with an unnatural grace, as if he existed out of sync with time itself. And when he spoke, his tone resonated with the soul.
"A bit of ash, a little less clothing, and no one could tell you two apart." Agora wanted to finish with 'Mother and son,' but he knew the outcome of such a statement. So he stopped, letting imagination be the reason they might fight—or accept the premise.
Which is the truth one cannot evade.
"I don't like this one bit," Orin said, stepping back.
"No one ever does like the unknown." Agora plucked the fear from Orin like a weed from the mind.
With his fear gone, Orin reached out with humor. "Is that staff for sale? I'd like to whack-'em-all with some ancient power."
"The questions you fear the answers to…" Agora stirred another emotion, played with it, then dropped it back in. "…or the paths that lead nowhere?"
The Pyxen woman shook Orin from his state of confusion. "Froze," she said, reminding him to speak.
He had stood still for too long.
How long? A question Orin feared to ask. So, he decided to leave the analysis for a future date, unable to make sense of the unsettling feeling that had been building since Agora's appearance.
"We shall meet another day," he promised, creating an invisible thread that even Agora could not sever.
"That we shall," Agora agreed, after failing to yank the thread of karma.
"Take me back for now. I have some business I can finish today." Orin bowed.
Without a word, Agora returned to meditating—one hand resting on the staff, the other forming a half-lotus mudra. His body hovered, only the staff's tip touching the floor.
Is he lost, waiting for someone to find him? Orin wanted to ask, the pose reminding him of the lost pyxen stance. But the question lost its weight before it could reach his tongue, and he left without saying another word.
At the edge of the sanctum—one step from never seeing Agora again—Orin stopped, his mind full of doubts, one thought contradicting the next. There seemed to be a threshold where Agora's influence ended, a place where Orin could think clearly. Clear enough to defy himself—thereby defying the Agora.
"Been so long since anyone defied themselves to face me," chuckled Agora.
"I don't know what kind of trick this is," Orin said, trying to frown, forcing a smile instead. "But I want in."
"No trick," Agora replied, scratching his tangled beard—a beard he hadn't seemed to trim since it had first grown.
"This place forces you to look inward. Most folk don't like facing themselves."
"Good thing I play beyond abnormal."
"I wouldn't call that good… but perhaps it's another way to stay within these forces." Agora gestured around, and the pulsing walls seemed to draw Orin deeper.
Orin resisted movement, letting the doubts seep into him and erode his awareness. He didn't even feel his knees hit the floor, nor his face glide across a cloud that softened the fall.
"Such drive…" Agora tapped the floor with his staff. A ripple flowed out, surrounding and lifting Orin.
"He almost gave up his entire journey to get a glimpse of 'the' end," he said, turning to the Pyxen woman. "Ouroboros shall wake him soon—with himself intact. So don't worry. Guide him back to his journey."
The Pyxen woman hesitated. The question felt too obvious, too shallow to ask the Agora.
"A glimpse is nothing for us," the Agora answered, understanding her silence. "It can become a person's drive never to stop... but for this child, a glimpse is enough to recreate and relive the entire picture. Over and over again."
The chief watched her shift and responded to another unspoken doubt. "He shall return. For his journey starts, and ends, here."
A swarm of thoughts circled the Pyxen woman's consciousness, each creeping forward, desperate to be known—to be solved.
"One more," Agora said, raising a finger, a smile playing on his lips. "The others shall remain with you until he returns, so be wary of what you ask."
Many thoughts screamed to be heard, each yearning to find resolution before ceasing to exist. Yet only one would be satisfied—never to exist again in any form.
What to ask? The Pyxen woman wondered.
Did Ouroboros choose another? Is he among the few who can affect our world—a world never meant to be part of Wanderlust? Will he be the one to unite them? Did Xavier's selfless wish save our world? Is it still saving it? Or... Are all those who followed Xavier somehow connectWanderlustrned her eyes toward the shards, searching them for signs—hints that Orin might carry traces of Xavier's spirit. That he might be the one to fulfill the promise once made.
"Calm down, child." Agora's voice washed over her, clearing the thunderous clouds cluttering her mind. A simple nod from him guided her toward the truth of her desire.
Instead of choosing from the countless mysteries spiraling within her, the Pyxen woman folded her arms across her chest and bowed.
"May I send my daughter to accompany him on the journey ahead?" she asked.
Agora watched as a new thread of fate wove itself around Orin and latched on. The earlier thread grew thicker, more robust—its possibility more real.
"Not my place to give," Agora replied, already levitating back into meditation.
A thought drifted through him as he settled into stillness: About time she finds the answers her heart seeks. Clever of her to solve them all at once. Wait, was I too generous? No. Now all she has to do is wait. This won't take long.
Orin awoke with a sinking feeling in his chest—but the Pyxen woman's calm assurance snapped him back to himself.
Well... almost himself!
Since he was passed out, the pyxen's ways seemed to change, almost bending to his every whim.
"Just like that, and you trust what I say?" Orin loved the help, not the attitude.
"Can't worry about what isn't, when I've got so many what ifs."
'The kid has gotten closer to the answers he seeks by spending a moment in the sanctum. No wonder the Agora removed him with such haste,' the Pyxen woman thought, smiling to herself.
"Hey!" Orin snapped her out of her daydream. "Can I ask how marriage and stuff work in a Pyxen tribe?" He tried pushing his luck further by enquiring about personal stuff. Wanderers were always touchy about reproduction, though they dabble in every chance they get.
"Why the sudden curiosity?" Asked the pyxen woman.
"Want to see if a bride can leave the tribe?" Orin's words stopped the Pyxen woman in her tracks, shock written all over her face.
"Others, outside... marry so young?"
"I have no clue. Never cared enough to research the subject."
"For whom is this proposal?" she asked, fearing the answer.
"For me, of course." Orin frowned. "Why would I bother with another wanderer's crap? I barely acknowledge them as is..."
"And why are you looking to marry so young?"
"I'm young in body... very, very old in mind. Not that old," he added, pointing at the sanctum behind them. "Grandpa is centuries ahead of me... I need some time to catch up. Still, old enough," he assured her. "And the marriage is a way for me to understand the Pyxen. I can catch up to Grandpa in a few decades, mentally. However, by studying a Pyxen, I can significantly shorten that time. Like more than half. What else is there…"
Orin scratched his head, thinking of everything he'd forgotten to say.
"One minute."
He dropped to the ground, taking the Pyxen's waiting pose to clear his head and focus.
"Pyxens also don't leave their tribe..." he added as he meditated. "...this marriage thing felt like a loophole, since no one might agree to it in the name of advancement, which is absurd, according to me. After seeing the ancient man, I realized how close you all are to the one true source. And I want to get to the bottom of that..."
Orin shifted his stance into a bow, on all fours. A bow meant for Aurochs and such mystica. "...any help is highly appreciated."
Orin's statements jumped from one mind-boggling idea to the next, almost frying the Pyxen woman's mind by the end. She had already intended to send her daughter to find a way to uncover all the answers her heart longed for through this kid, who, by all signs, was blessed by Ouroboros.
Yet she held herself back.
Because the idea was absurd. Absurd to the point of madness.
And now, this kid had come up with an even crazier plan—if that was even possible to imagine.
"Why so honest?" she asked out of curiosity. She had heard many stories from the Agora's chosen, and none had ever mentioned a heavy-footer being this open.
"I'm nine, not an imbecile." Orin waved off the obvious implication. "My…" He paused, then forced the word out. "–Mom… wasn't with me for long. That doesn't mean I can't learn how to treat the one who's going to come into my life. Realize I have to treat her and her family the way she treated ours. I have to maintain the smile she had, in the one that comes next. It's not mystic science."
Orin smiled with his eyes closed, yet two drops of tears betrayed him, slipping past the trap of his eyelids.
"Which means being honest about all of my intentions. I wish there were another way. Can't waste time here. When the mountain moves, the lost effects make staying pointless. So the only option is to get a Pyxen out. That's why you have to know everything about me to negotiate on my behalf. To speak my truth. I can't convert all this into a nod. I'd be nodding forever. This is all I've got to bring to the table. Which reminds me—my dad's not around. Like, at all…"
The Pyxen woman realized Orin was rambling to keep himself distracted from the memories rising to the surface. He hadn't fainted in the sanctum because the final truth was too much to witness, but because it was tied to the suppressed memories of his mother.
She decided to explain their marriage process to him, stopping him before he spiraled into a never-ending rant.
"A Pyxen woman or man," she began, "steps on the toe of the one they like... and waits. If the other returns the gesture within four days, then the man journeys into Ouroboros to find sacred red ash, hidden deep within the forest. The woman stays behind to convince both her tribe and her future husband's tribe of their bond."
She knelt and pointed at her forehead. Faint traces of red ash were still visible between her brows, climbing up into her parted hairline, though dimmed now with time.
"When the man returns, he places the sacred ash on the woman's third eye. If she still wants to remain in the commitment, she cares for the ashes until they fade. And until then, they visit one another's villages—making them their own, one Pyxen step at a time."
"We can walk freely inside our territory," she reminded Orin. "But beyond it, even the Pyxen Step can't take us further."
"Then how does the husband find the ash?" Orin asked, perking up.
"That's a secret no man shall share," she chuckled. "Nor a woman." She winked.
"I'm horrible at anything, Wanderer," Orin frowned. "Need bigger hints than a simple wink."
"Answers are worth their value only when discovered during their heartfelt pursuit."
Orin raised a brow, suspicious, lifting it to an almost unnatural height.
"Says the wife of the Agora," she admitted, cheeks blushing. "Anyway, the woman holds the man's pinky as they memorize her territory, and he does the same when learning hers. Only when they can freely roam each other's tribes are they considered fit for the bond."
"Why not stick to one's tribe?"
"Distant mysteries attract more than the ones close to home."
Orin's frown deepened. "Another one of her sayings?"
She nodded, smiling. "Goes well with another: The fruits of hard work may be bitter, but they are more cherished than the sweet ones."
"And how many nods does that take to convey?"
"I'll let you know once I figure it out," she laughed. "For us, marriage isn't taken lightly. We wait—if it takes forever—until we understand ourselves. Only then do we choose a mate who adds to what is, helping us reach what could be. Even after that, it isn't two people figuring things out—or two villages coming together. It's two people bringing two villages together. Both raise our children. A simple nod became a language, because we are, in the end, all one."
"That's one thing you said that made sense." Orin stretched, breathing in the environment before the inevitable departure. "No wonder you're all so close to one another—and the one true source. It's the true accumulation and sharing of knowledge." He summed up the Pyxen tribe in a single phrase: "A true wanderer—Pyxen."
He turned with a smile. "Not happening outside Ouroboros, don't worry. Not unless an external force 'forces' us to work together."
"Why is everything a mystery for you to break down and solve?" she asked, the words leaving her before she could stop them. "Why can't things… just be?"
"Curiosity got us this far," Orin said, slipping his hand into the mystic tree's water stream, trying to halt its flow. The current passed through his palm for a moment, then diverted, curling around his fingers before cascading downward again—his hand now cradled in a pocket of flowing water.
"I guess I'm curious if it can take us to the end." He pushed his arm deeper into the stream, attempting to link two tiny waterfalls. The streams danced, twining into a knotted braid—then broke apart the instant he interrupted their rhythm. "To a place where curiosity ends."
He pulled back and gestured toward the stream. "Maybe then we can just be. No longer wonder. No longer wander. Just be."
"Xav…" the Pyxen woman whispered before biting her tongue, Orin's expression cutting her off mid-thought. His promise, she reminded herself. This is it—it's happening. History is repeating. And maybe this time, the prophecy might come true.
She waved a small Pyxen girl over from a distance, heart set on playing her part. I'm not going to stand by like the others did. I can't. Not if I can hasten the path, even a little. This is the end of the curse—and the beginning of the next era.
"She'll guide you to that accursed hotel," the woman said, pointing as the little girl neared. "I have other matters to attend to."
Orin watched her leave, debating whether to call her back to ask if their strange arrangement still stood. But then he let it go. Silence, after all, was an answer.
Should I have lied? The thought dared surface—only to be crushed by the quiet fury of his mother's memory rising like frost behind his eyes.
As if sensing it, the Pyxen woman returned, face a little frayed by her swirling thoughts.
"The conversation shifted so fast," she said with a nervous laugh, "I almost forgot about your absurd marriage proposal."
Orin tilted his head, curious where she was going with this.
"One last thing," she added. "Why aren't you looking for love? Everyone else is. Even a Pyxen. Even mystica, in their own, unique way. So why not you?"
For once, Orin didn't need to think. He didn't need to quote the Agora or copy someone else's wisdom. The answer came from the marrow of him, as pure and unguarded as the stream.
"Love brought me into this world," he said, his voice heavy with pain. "Love raised me… until it couldn't. And now, love stays with me in memory."
He looked down at his hands.
"No one can replace the one I already have. And any other kind feels like a cheap imitation. Like an Ornyx pretending to be a mystica."
He lifted both hands and weighed them, invisible scales holding two unseen worlds.
"They're not the same. They'll never be."
"I think I might have a better option than marriage," the Pyxen woman said, stepping closer. "I'll send one of my sons to your world. Together, you can solve them all."
Orin, upon hearing he would get to study a Pyxen outside of Ouroboros, erased every other hidden implication from his mind.
Finally, the stage was set. And he had taken the first true step toward his greater goals.
'I'll be back sooner than you think,' he sent the mental challenge to Agora, a grin tugging at the edge of his lips. 'Next time we meet, I'm winning by a landslide.'
He shook the woman's hand, sealing the deal.
Ahead, the little Pyxen girl hopped along the cloudy surface, her every step cushioned and buoyed, the expended energy returned to her tiny feet like a silent cheer. Joy was ever-present in the wind around her village—and in all the others she had visited.
Ouroboros wasn't simply her home. It was her shield. Her vanguard.
The unknown is only frightening when it chases you. Once the unknown accepts you as its child, then even the known must bow its head.
Fear you.
Respect you.
This was the life of the abandoned Pyxen girl—lost to the world, but embraced by Ouroboros Zee.
Like all children, the outside world had once intrigued her.
The "heavy footers," those strange, noisy Wanderers, were similar to her people... yet unsettlingly different. She had learned their language, eager to meet more of them, to bridge the gap between worlds.
Her gift—her vanguard—had impressed Agora himself, and she was made a guide: the only child allowed to interact freely with the heavy footers, a rare honor under the strict laws of a pyxen tribe.
For a time, it had seemed simple, even joyful. Her vanguard made the harsh training feel like a game. Her natural genius made even the most difficult lessons effortless. She stood at the frontlines proudly, a bridge between different races of wanderlust.
Until 'he' shattered the illusion.
Until one of them committed the forbidden sin—to take a life.
She had thought all Wanderers were alike, simply leaning on Wanderlust or mystica to survive. She could not have been more wrong.
When her eyes were opened, truly opened, she saw the monsters hidden among their kind.
Their feet were heavy. Heavy with sin. No wonder the land wilted beneath them. No wonder they hurt every ground they touched—burdens from birth.
She had fled then, back to the warm embrace of her kind.
Back to lighter feet. Open hearts. Unspoken understanding.
Back to the place where the Lure never judged—because there was nothing to judge.
A place no heavy footer could ever reach.
A place the Agora had promised would remain forever untouched.
The bounce vanished from the little Pyxen girl's step after seeing Orin. The careless wave of her hands stiffened. And a plain, lifeless expression returned to her face, masking everything underneath.
For once, she was grateful for all the guide training she'd endured. Otherwise, she might have begged the Lure itself to commit the unforgivable sin.
Every subtle request the Pyxen woman put forth, hinting with urgent nods that she had pressing matters elsewhere, was met with a firm, defiant, "No."
There were many subtle ways among Pyxen to decline a fellow's request with grace. But not today.
Not with him here.
At last, unable to reason with her, the woman issued a direct order—a rare, formal command in their kind—forcing the duty onto the child.
Orin fell into step behind her, following the little pyxen girl out of the village, through the shimmering Prismvault, and onto the winding path that would lead to the hotel.
He had watched the girl stubbornly refuse even her own kind's pleas. Still, Orin, ever curious, tried his hand at drawing her out with questions.
Silence answered him each time. After a few attempts, he stopped. He marked her down as a genius—difficult genius—instead turned inward, mumbling to himself.
Orin knew and accepted he wasn't Hem when it came to adjusting the dials of another Wanderer's heart.
Where Hem could calibrate silence, Orin could only fill it with thought.
Lost in his spiraling speculations, Orin let his voice wander through half-formed mysteries—concepts that had lodged themselves in the back of his mind for too long.
His never-ending monologue made the little girl pray to the Lure to shorten their distance and time together.
Perhaps the Lure listened, for the maze of paths twisted under her will, revealing a shorter route.
Without hesitation, she steered them down it, even though it pointed back, nearer to the village.
Orin, as usual, barely noticed such menial things, which was not what shocked the little girl.
What shocked the girl was how completely he trusted her guidance, never once questioning her choice.
Her curiosity flared again, this time focusing not on his weight but on his mind.
As they walked, she listened—grudgingly at first—then with growing awe.
Where Pyxen children were trained to understand complexity through accumulation, Orin moved down a different path.
He broke apart tangled ideas into simple, digestible truths. Dismantled labyrinths of thought into child-sized bridges and then rebuilt understanding into playful, effortless shapes.
She could not understand why he did this when he clearly could grasp the full complexity himself.
Another mystery.
Another weight on her mind.
She remained an involuntary participant until Orin mentioned the mystica Whimzle—and his so-called accomplishment of saving their kind.
That snagged her attention fully.
How could a heavy footer save a god? Yet the way he reasoned it, the way he concluded, it was unsettlingly beautiful.
"We don't have Whimzle on Ouroboros anymore," she finally snapped, her voice sharp with superiority. "They have migrated."
Orin didn't even glance at her. He let her rudeness slide off him like rain.
Irritated, she revealed her deeper skills—her true genius—and the mystic secret of her bond with the Lure.
'Let him try to be so casual after hearing that.' She snickers to herself, nose pointed at the sky.
This sudden boast of ego caught Orin's attention for a split second. He finally glanced at the girl, scanned her size, and instinctively categorized her as a child.
With that classification complete, his attention snapped right back to more important matters, dismissing her words as childish jibber-jabber.
"Jibber–gabber," Orin muttered, his mind already off chasing the next puzzle. "What a name for a mystica... They never stop talking, yet no sound makes sense. Complete opposites of Whimzle. Buzzed-up extroverts, all nonsense and noise."
"Whimzle are introverts?" the little girl burst out, aghast.
No Pyxen had cracked that mystica's nature. And here this 'kid' was, speaking about it as if he'd seen it firsthand.
"No possible," she whispered, half to herself.
"Turns out they're the 'one true definition' for introvert," Orin nodded, fully confident.
"Impossible!"
"I didn't think so either—until the Ouroboros climate cloaked me and the Lure messed with Whimzle's mind. Close discovery." He whistled low, remembering the close call.
Of all his wild claims, clever remarks, and layered thoughts—the ones that had slowly lifted him, in her eyes, to the highest pedestal any heavy-footer could dream of—
The last statement knocked him clean off it and splatted him to the ground like the bug he was.
"Lies!" she spat.
Orin blinked, bewildered for a second. Then his attention moved on—past her, past the path, beyond even Ouroboros—diving back into the storm of mysteries stockpiled in his whispkeep.
How can a heavy footer even get close enough to the heart of Zee? And even if he did, why didn't he go all the way in?
"Heavy footers are so dumb," she muttered, the anger finally boiling over. "Committing unforgivable crimes like Zee will just let them roam his territory unchecked."
"Which one?" Orin asked absentmindedly.
"How many of your kind do that, if you even have to ask such an absurd question?"
"'Countless' isn't a number that can define that," Orin shrugged with a grin.
"So… Countless plus one?"
"How can you laugh at such an atrocity?"
"Ooh… a Pyxen with big words," Orin teased, rubbing his nose with a smug snort. "Give it up, kid. A philosophical debate with me won't work."
"Oh?" she said, folding her arms. "And why not?"
Orin puffed out his chest and placed his hands on his hips like a superhero. "Because I once argued against one of the best philosophical scholars of all time—and lost. And now I can win by using his words."
"That's so lame!" she said, choking on her laughter. "Did you even understand what you were quoting?"
"Didn't have to." Orin beamed. "Memorizing the line was enough to win."
"How absurd." She clasps her forehead like the headache had just become personal.
"If one cannot truly judge the depth of the sin," Orin quoted, "the sin becomes insignificant."
"That sounds like a psychopath's philosophy."
"Doesn't matter who said it. Until it's proven wrong, it's right."
For every moral volley she launched, Orin blocked with, "That's your opinion."
And when she pressed harder, he'd add, "How can your opinion be more valid than mine?"
Logic became foggy. The tighter she held to it, the more it unraveled.
In the end, opinion was just that—unprovable, unscalable, personal.
Wanderers, after all, perceived the world as magic.
Mystica? Their very nature was bending logic into insight.
So, even something like murder, what if it wasn't destruction, but an ascension? A push to higher existence?
"Okay," the little girl snapped, shaking her head. "Now that guy is a psychopath, for sure!"
Orin grinned. "It's just a philosophical debate. Scholars toss these around to pass the time."
"But you believe it," she accused.
"I believe I'll meet the one who said it," Orin said, making a fist in promise. "Dr. Quack—legend. I've got a lot to thank him for. Or her, or it, for. And a lot to ask."
"You don't even know if it's a him or her?" Her voice dripped with contempt. "Typical. Another sin to the pile."
"Oh no," Orin laughed, rubbing the back of his head. "That one's… kind of my trait. No one else gets to claim that sin."
"Of course, you people find ways to justify evil." Her lips curled in frustration.
Orin observed her in silence, a sense of deja vu nudging his mind. Hate, true hate, in a Pyxen?
He'd never seen it before. Never even thought he would. And Orin was sure—he remembered every Pyxen he'd met. Unlike the other races, where details blurred and slipped away, the Pyxen had stuck.
He tried something. Soft. Patient. Like Dr. Quack had once tried on him. "So Pyxen… are the purest?"
"No doubt about it," she growled.
"You mentioned Whimzle leaving Ouroboros," Orin said.
"What of it?" she snapped, already bracing to strike at whatever insult might follow.
"Why didn't any Pyxen stop them?"
The question stunned her.
Orin stepped closer, voice calm, hands raised to rest on her shoulders. "I'm going to call you Joy, for this example," he said.
"Look at me, Joy. Don't blink. Only think."
"What can anyone do?" Joy snapped, her voice carrying more weariness than she meant to show.
"No blinking." Orin cupped her face in his hands. "Listen to me, Joy. Focus. For once, only think alongside my words. Not against them."
Joy's eyes widened, struggling to obey. Orin smiled faintly, let go, and stepped back.
"Did you ever try to stop the Whimzle?" he asked.
She shook her head. Slow and worried.
"Now, say I found a way to stop them. Does that make me a bad person for trying to keep them? Or you're the bad one for never offering, for which is why they never stayed?"
The question fell like a ripple into a still pool.
They stood there. Silent. Time bent around them—whether by the Lure's will or the weight of the moment, neither could say. Seconds turned to thoughts—minutes to unanswered truths.
Eventually, Joy looked up. Quietly, softly—she gave up. And in that surrender, she asked for the answer with her eyes.
"I'm not wrong for trying," Orin said. "And you're not wrong for not. In your eyes, I might be the villain. In mine, maybe it's you. And to a third—maybe we're both wrong."
He took a breath. His tone dropped into something deeper, something almost learned by force.
"There's no right answer. Just different views. Because none of us possesses all the factors necessary to reach absolute truth, it might take a lifetime to find even one amongst the hundreds of choices given daily. So we stick to what we believe. But we leave space—just a little—for someone else's belief, too."
Joy watched him—really watched him...
He hated those words. She could see it. Not because they were wrong, but because they weren't his. Not truly. They were a borrowed blade he'd used in too many duels, and wounds still lingered. Maybe he hoped that one day, by speaking them often enough, he'd believe them. Or find the one flaw that shattered them.
Her anger melted.
This wasn't a debate anymore. It was a boy who had once been broken by wisdom too big for his heart, repeating it until he either healed or cracked again.
"Until…" she whispered, repeating Orin's halted words.
Orin blinked. The fire in his eyes snapped back to life—a promise reignited. "...the day all absolutes can be reached," he finished, the words sharp, hopeful—and his own.
———<>||<>——— End of Chapter Sixteen. ———<>||<>———