A warm, orange-red sun hung directly overhead.
It poured its light onto him without reserve.
The temperature of that sunlight was just right. Not blinding, nor scorching, but warmly comfortable, like a faded, well-worn cotton quilt, like Sela's hand gently resting on his forehead.
Erika stared blankly at that sun.
Within his hollow mind, a flicker of confusion surfaced, slowly, excruciatingly slowly.
This sun... wasn't it a bit bigger than before?
Or closer?
He didn't know. He just watched. That orange-red halo slowly bloomed in his vision, diffusing like a drop of blood in clear water, spreading thread by thread.
The surrounding air embraced him.
It pressed against his skin, against his shoulders, against that empty right sleeve of his. The air burrowed into his body—through his pores, through his nostrils, through his ears, through every unhealed wound.
Erika looked down.
Softness.
The ground beneath his feet was soft. The kind of softness that you sank into, yet that held you up, like something living, breathing.
It was a meadow.
A meadow covered in lush green grass, enclosed within this massive, sun-drenched courtyard. The grass was too green—so rich it bordered on black, every blade looking as though it were coated in a slick layer of oil, gleaming wetly in the sunlight.
"Baa—"
A familiar, soft bleat called out.
Erika turned his head.
Sheep. So many sheep. They were fluffy, plump, and white, huddled together like breathing clouds. Their eyes were very black, very round, quietly staying beside him, watching him.
No, not watching him. Watching behind him.
Erika looked at them, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards slightly, beyond his control.
Was that a smile? He didn't know himself. Only the corner of his mouth moved, as if something had gently snagged it from beneath the skin.
The sheep.
Walked.
And lay down.
Not falling, not stumbling. They simply walked to a certain spot, then quietly lay down on the ground. No painful cries, no struggle. They just lay down, resting their chins on the grass, eyes still open, still watching a certain direction.
Then—
Their bodies began to slowly melt.
Not rotting, not shattering. Melting. Like ice thawing under the summer sun, like sugar cubes dissolving in hot water. The white wool first turned grey, then brown, finally transforming into dark brown, moist soil. That soil writhed and churned, overflowing from the sheep's bodies, spreading outwards.
From that soil, fresh, dew-kissed tender grass rapidly sprouted.
The grass grew so fast you could track it with your naked eye—first green shoots, then leaves, then thick clumps of glossy, tender grass, trembling in the sunlight as if taking a breath.
Erika found this magical, yet also perfectly natural.
The grass has grown, so the other sheep will be happy.
When this thought surfaced in his mind, he didn't even feel that anything was wrong. It was just how things were. Sheep turn to soil, soil grows grass, grass feeds other sheep. It was the most normal thing in the meadow.
Squish, smack, squelch...
The sound of chewing came from all around.
The sheep that were still standing lowered their heads. They gathered around that patch of newly grown grass, opened their mouths, and began to eat with ravenous delight.
The sound was too dense. Too close.
Squish... smack... squelch...
The grass juices were rich and abundant, flowing down from the corners of the sheep's mouths, dyeing their pristine white wool a vivid red. That red trickled down the fleece, dripping onto the grass, onto the soil, onto the backs of the sheep that hadn't yet completely melted.
They ate so hungrily.
The chewing was incredibly loud. You could even hear some crisp, cracking sounds, like teeth snapping through small twigs. Was that grass roots? Stems? Or something else?
Erika didn't think about it.
Sheep eat grass, grass feeds sheep.
The most normal thing in the meadow.
He sat there quietly, basking in the massive, blood-tinged warm sun above. That sun was even bigger now, and much closer. Its edges were blurred, smudged like a melting fireball, dripping something. The droplets falling down were lukewarm, landing on his face, on his shoulders, slipping into his empty sleeve.
He listened to the dense, sticky, wet chewing sounds all around him.
The sound was too loud. So loud it felt as if they were chewing right inside his own ears. So loud it felt as if his own teeth were moving along with them.
He watched the red sheep, their bodies beginning to swell and deform from gorging themselves.
The sheep's bellies bulged, perfectly round, looking ready to burst right through that red-stained fleece. Their eyes began to protrude, pupils dilating until they became two cloudy, unseeing orbs of white. Their mouths still moved, still chewed, still made those smack, squelch sounds, even though the tender grass was completely gone, leaving only mouths full of wet red.
The sun came closer again.
Erika could feel its heat now. That temperature was no longer warm, but scalding. So hot that his skin tightened and ached, as if something were trying to violently burrow out from within.
He looked down.
At his own hand—that single, still-intact left hand.
It was glowing.
Very faint, very weak, as if that platinum brand was slowly awakening beneath his skin. But that light was lukewarm, soft, exactly the same as the sunlight radiating from the orb above.
Erika looked up.
At those red sheep still chewing, still swelling, still deforming.
At that glossy, tender grass growing straight from the sheep's flesh and blood.
At that blood-tinged warm sun above, inching closer and growing hotter.
He opened his mouth.
Wanted to say something.
But only let out a—
"Baa."
Baa?
"Baa."
"Baa."
"Baa."
"Baa."
More baas. From the left, from the right, from all directions, squeezed out from those fluffy, rapidly reddening bodies. Those sounds overlapped, blended together, making it indistinguishable which sheep was calling, and indistinguishable—whether he had joined in with them.
Erika couldn't tell anymore, either.
He only knew his lips were moving. Open, close, like a fish blowing bubbles in the water. The sound slid from his throat, soft, glutinous, carrying a trace of lukewarm moisture, dispersing into the air before being swallowed by an ocean of more baas.
Something's wrong.
A thought floated up from the chaos, like a fragile bubble rising from deep water.
How could eating grass produce red juice?
Grass is green. Grass juice is green, too. Those sticky strings running down their mouths should be green. But they were red. A red so bright it hurt the eyes, so piercing, red like—
Maybe it was berries.
That was it.
Red berries.
When this explanation surfaced in his mind, everything made perfect sense. It was berries. The sheep weren't just eating grass; they were eating berries. Berries growing hidden in the grass, red, round, concealed beneath those glossy leaves.
What did berries taste like?
Erika didn't know. But he started thinking about it.
Sweet? Or sour? Probably sweet. Very sweet, the kind that numbs your tongue, the kind that makes your teeth go soft. When you bite into them—pop—the juice would splash out, on your lips, on the tip of your tongue, sliding down your throat, cool at first, then scalding hot, like—
Baa.
He was hungry, too.
No, not hungry. Craving. That visceral kind of craving rising from his stomach, making his mouth flood with saliva. He looked at that red juice, at that red-stained wool, at those bulging, round bellies, and suddenly felt his own stomach was entirely empty, too.
Baa.
He wanted to eat, too.
Wanted to eat berries. Wanted those red, sweet things that went pop when you bit them.
—
He stood up.
Beneath his feet was softness. Stepping on that soil, you'd sink in, and it would slowly spring back, as if the earth were breathing. Step by step he walked, heading towards that lush grass.
The grass was tall, reaching up to his knees. The leaves brushed against his bare legs, ticklish, cool, wet.
Squish... smack... squelch...
Another sheep was eating.
Just a few steps ahead of him. That sheep had its head down, its mouth buried deep in the grass, chewing rhythmically. Its body was very white, gleaming white, only the corners of its mouth were red, a red so dark it was almost black. That red juice was dripping from its lips, drop by drop, onto the grass, onto the soil, onto its own cloven hooves.
Erika watched it.
Watched its mouth moving. Watched its throat rolling. Watched those berries being swallowed, mouthful by mouthful.
He craved it even more.
Then—
He saw the sheep's horns.
Those horns grew from its head, curved, pointed—originally a normal length, a normal curvature. But as he watched, those horns began to grow wildly.
As if something inside was violently pushing them out.
As if something was pulling them.
The horns grew longer and longer, thicker and thicker, bypassing their normal curvature, extending far past where they should have stopped, still growing, still growing—
Until they pierced the sheep's own eyes.
Pop.
A very soft sound.
Those horns went in through the eye sockets and came out the back, pushing those round, black eyeballs entirely out, leaving them dangling on the horns, swaying gently.
That sheep kept chewing.
Squish... smack... squelch...
It didn't cry out. Didn't fall. It just kept eating, kept chewing, kept making that sticky, wet sound.
Red. Red everywhere. Red berries, red juice, red wool, red eyes.
Erika stood there.
He didn't know if he should go over. Didn't know if he still wanted to eat those berries.
He only knew—
His stomach roared with an inescapable hunger once more.