The path they led him along wasn't like any road he had ever seen before.
He was no longer sure how long they had been walking.
There was no sun to measure time by. That sunset light never changed—never deepened, never faded. But his body—this native body—began to show subtle reactions: his breathing grew heavier, his steps slowed slightly, and maintaining focus required more effort than before.
Sael walked at the front, every step firm and precise. The way he placed his feet gave V the uneasy sense that he had walked this road many times before—or had learned to move as if he had.
Keren stayed at the rear.
He whistled softly, tunelessly. Just a string of broken notes.
V walked between Irok and Sael.
When he stepped onto the opposite side of the bridge, he glanced back again—this time quickly.
The bridge was still there.
But the feeling of "behind" wasn't.
It was as if the path existed only in one direction of perception. Walk forward, and it appeared. Think about turning back, and… there was nothing to return to—like fog swallowing everything whole.
They kept moving.
The architecture ahead widened into a larger area—a distorted plaza with uneven stone flooring where water had pooled into a broad reflective surface. Curved stone pillars rose at scattered intervals, without clear order, each leaning in a different direction.
And there—
He saw them.
The wanderers.
Not many, but enough to make the space feel less empty in an uncomfortable way. They stood scattered around the plaza, near the water or leaning against the pillars. Some moved slowly, tracing meaningless circles.
Some stood still, staring down at the water.
Their eyes were empty.
Not the lifeless emptiness of corpses—but the look of people still breathing who no longer had anything left to hold onto. When one of them lifted his gaze toward V, it slid past him as if he were an unnamed object.
"How long?" V asked quietly.
Sael answered.
"Hard to say."
"I mean," Sael continued, eyes fixed ahead, "how much longer they have left—who can be sure."
One of them approached.
A woman—or something that resembled one. Her long hair clumped together in matted strands, skin a pale gray. As she drew closer, V noticed her steps weren't fully synchronized with her body—each movement seemed to require a separate decision.
She stopped before them, studying each face for a long time.
Then she asked, her voice hoarse and slow,
"Does anyone… still remember… the shore?"
No one answered.
She stood there for several beats, as if waiting for a response from herself, then turned away and resumed her circular path.
Keren clicked his tongue softly.
"Can they be saved?" V asked.
Irok shook his head, almost imperceptibly.
"'Saved' is a dangerous concept here."
That sentence followed him as they walked on.
They left the plaza through a narrow passage—a crack in the stone barely wide enough for a single person. When V stepped into it, the sense of space behind him was instantly severed, as if an invisible door had closed.
He didn't look back again.
The path beyond the crevice opened into a wider stretch of ground, but it was lower and darker than the areas before. The sunset light still existed, yet the curved rock formations absorbed much of it, tinting the space in pale gray—like a memory that had faded.
There were more wanderers here.
They didn't gather in groups. They didn't interact. Each moved within a separate orbit, crossing paths without colliding—as if they had learned to avoid even the presence of others.
V slowed.
Something here was different from the plaza.
Not physically.
But in the sense of existence. When one of them drifted past him, he felt as though something brushed against his consciousness—lightly—then slipped away without leaving a trace.
Then he saw him.
A man—or what had once been one—stood near the water's edge. Tall. Thin. Slightly hunched. His arms hung loosely at his sides, head lowered as though studying the still surface below.
Nothing seemed unusual.
Until he… stopped.
He didn't fall. Didn't convulse.
He simply stood still.
V halted instinctively. Irok and Sael noticed at the same time.
The man remained upright, but something… was gone. As if the weight of his presence had been withdrawn, leaving behind an empty shell.
Keren tilted his head, narrowing his eyes.
"Too late," he murmured.
"What's happening?" V asked.
No one answered immediately.
Then the man slowly raised his head.
His eyes were empty—like the others.
No focus. As if nothing stood behind his pupils anymore.
His mouth opened.
No sound came out.
V took a step forward reflexively—
Irok placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Don't go near him," he said. "You won't help."
The man stood like that for a moment longer.
Then his head tilted fully to one side.
The body remained standing—but something had detached.
As though it had lost its final supporting pillar.
His body touched the stone ground without making a sound.
It simply lay there.
A corpse still breathing—if that could still be called breathing.
V's throat went dry.
"Is he… dead?" he asked.
Sael shook his head.
"Not exactly."
"Then what is he?"
Sael didn't answer. Irok did.
"Here," Irok said, his voice steady but lower than usual, "we are what counts as alive."
V turned to him.
"What do you mean?"
Irok didn't look at him. His gaze remained fixed on the body on the ground.
"We don't call that death," he continued. "Because death implies an ending. This… is depletion."
"Depletion of what?"
"Memory," Keren cut in. "Name. Sequence. Connections. The markers that tell you who you are."
V looked at the man again.
A cold thought ran down his spine.
"Then the wanderers earlier…"
"Are the ones nearing depletion," Sael said. "Or partially depleted. Or already gone in pieces. Who knows."
V fell silent.
Irok gestured for them to continue. No one stayed behind. No one touched the body. As they walked away, V didn't look back—but he had the distinct feeling that if he did, nothing would be there.
They walked a considerable distance before Sael spoke again.
"Do you remember the most painful thing in your life?"
Irok didn't react. Keren glanced over but remained quiet.
"Why?" V asked.
"Because painful memories," Sael said, "tend to cling the tightest. Here, they're what keep people from dissolving too quickly."
Images flooded in—faster than he wanted.
The orphanage.
Long dormitories. The smell of bleach and bland food. The list pinned to the wall—the names of children who had been "chosen."
The lucky ones.
Adopted. Trained. Bakers. Artists. Chefs. Technical staff.
A smaller number—those with abnormal indices, those who responded well to mana stones—caught the attention of minor clans or the government. Taken in as adoptees. Or "reserve personnel." Trained to become Awakened.
The rest—
Died early. Disappeared. Or became people like him—manual laborers, porters, wall watchmen. Jobs that didn't require a future.
And then the evenings.
Supervisors. Teachers.
Beatings that left no visible marks. No specific reason. Just because they could.
He remembered clearly the day he learned how not to cry out loud.
But he didn't say any of that.
He filtered it.
"At the place I used to live," he said evenly, "I wasn't chosen. So I stayed."
Sael nodded.
"And?"
"And I hated the feeling of being left behind."
That was true.
But not all of it.
He didn't mention the nights he was dragged from his bed. Didn't mention how memories could hurt when remembered deeply enough.
He offered only a portion—a memory just sufficient to avoid the gazes of three strangers.
Keren looked at him longer than usual.
Irok didn't.
Sael nodded again.
"That's enough," he said.