Chapter 29
Again
A drop falls.
The impact draws a perfect circle that opens on the liquid surface, infinite, as if there were no shores on any horizon. Each wave pushes the next and is lost under a sky heavy with fixed stars, too bright.
In the middle of that impossible plain, a young man with brown hair stands. The water barely covers his ankles, but there is no cold, no wind, not even the murmur that should accompany the water's movement.
He blinks, bewildered. One eyebrow arches, as if seeking logic in the absurd. He looks to one side, then the other.
His own reflections multiply on the surface, distorted by the ripples still traveling from the point where the drop fell.
The young man lifts his head. The starry sky seems to crush him with its immensity, thousands of points of light so sharp they seem like holes torn in dark fabric. He lowers his gaze: the infinite water reflects the same stars, as if he were trapped between two identical firmaments, without up or down.
He turns around. First to the right, slowly, seeking some sign of a boundary, of land, of another living being. Nothing. The echo of his own movement in the water returns the sensation of absolute solitude.
He turns to the left, faster this time, as if changing angles could catch a detail that escaped him before.
He stops abruptly. He narrows his eyes, straining them, determined not to miss a single misplaced glimmer. His breath catches, and for a moment he seems like a statue, fixed in the middle of the liquid void.
He takes a step and the hollow sound of the splash makes him frown, understanding where he is.
Again… here?
He thought. He looks around with a hint of annoyance, as if recognizing something in the absurd. He furrows his brow, lips tense.
Fine - he thinks to himself, breathing deeply—. I don't know where I am… but this has to be the same place. The place where that figure… —his thought cuts off, evoking the blurred image of a humanoid silhouette, the moment a colossal wave surged over him. The memory makes him swallow—. Where it threw that giant wave at me.
Even so, he doesn't dare move abruptly. He measures each step he takes, barely placing his foot so the splash is minimal. He scans the liquid horizon with narrowed eyes, as if any sound could awaken something hidden.
Last time… I woke up in the bed, in the room…
The thought freezes him inside. If he had returned to the bed last time after being in this place… that could only mean one thing.
So now… am I unconscious again? Or just… still asleep?
The doubt tightens inside him. He touches his arm, his chest, trying to verify if he feels his own body. The contact is real, but it doesn't convince him.
He brought a hand to his chin, pressing his lips, as if the gesture could help organize his memories.
Let's see… the last thing… he thought.
The scene returned fragmented, like flashes through mist. First, the girl. He remembered her voice nearby, the tension in her eyes. Then, the alchemist, with that air of always calculating more than he said. And before them, his uncle getting up, followed by the big man and the officer, leaving together through the lounge door.
The memory was interrupted by a dull thud in his mind: the roar, just on the other side of the door. So violent it had forced him to get up immediately. He had wanted to run, open it, look out… but a hand stopped him.
The alchemist.
He saw it clearly now: his serious gaze, the firm gesture holding him by the shoulder. Don't go near, he had said. Not just to him, but to everyone. And then he had left, alone, with that strange calm that made him seem like someone who already knew what he would find.
The alchemist leaned toward the door. The creak of the hinges opening. The door was left ajar and the man's silhouette was outlined in the frame, illuminated by a reddish glow coming from outside.
He saw him leave calmly, without hurry, though the air entering from the hallway was suffocating, laden with heat. For an instant, the alchemist remained there, half his body in the hallway, half inside the room, as if evaluating the situation.
"There's no one out here," he said, without turning. His voice was lost under the roar coming from the right. "But the hallway… is full of fire."
The flaming reflection painted the walls with violent shadows. The young man remembered the impression that the air itself vibrated. Then, the alchemist pulled a small vial from his belt. The glass was fogged on the inside, as if inhabited by something breathing.
He uncorked it with a dry twist and, immediately, a viscous liquid began to trickle from the opening. It didn't fall: it slid outward with a life of its own, spreading like a dense mass crawling across the floor. It advanced toward the fire's glow, and as soon as it touched it.
A hiss cut the air, sharp and brief. The flame flickered, contracted upon itself, and disappeared as if someone had blown out a candle. The red light vanished in an instant, and with it the roar, leaving a sudden silence that made the hallway's darkness heavier.
He remembers that, as soon as the fire was extinguished, he couldn't contain himself.
"And my uncle? And the other two?" he asked, his voice tighter than he intended.
The alchemist put the vial away calmly, as if nothing had happened. His profile was barely illuminated by the ember of some distant fire still resisting in the hallway.
"Apparently…" he started, thoughtful, "the monster the big man mentioned must have arrived."
The young man clenched his fists. The word "monster" weighed on him more now than ever. The monster that had left Körper in such a state.
"If we're in here, with wounded, the most logical thing is that they…" the alchemist left the phrase hanging for a second "…decided to distract it. Lure it away from us."
The idea hit him like a stone in the stomach. He imagined his uncle, the burly man, and the officer facing that thing alone, while he was there, detained.
The alchemist let out a slight snort, half approval, half reproach.
"It was a good decision… but risky," he added finally, with a glint of irony in his gaze. "It would have been better if I had handled the matter."
He said it without boasting, with the naturalness of someone discussing a routine task. And yet, in his tone there was a cold certainty that made the young man shudder.
The young man frowned, with a hint of reproach.
"Then why didn't you go? If you say it would have been better…"
The alchemist looked at him out of the corner of his eye, as if he had been waiting for the question. The faint light sketched a half-smile on his face, more weary than arrogant.
"Because it's not about 'better' or 'worse.'" He adjusted his sleeve, as if the explanation were a formality. "Of course I could have gone. I could have faced the monster, distracted it, maybe stopped it."
A brief silence fell. The young man held his breath, waiting for a more direct answer.
"But," the alchemist added finally, in a more serious tone, "everything I do has a cost. My resources aren't infinite. And using them… is the same as weakening myself."
The young man looked at him, confused.
"Weakening you?"
"Exactly." The alchemist raised the empty vial and spun it between his fingers, as an example. "What I spend doesn't return. What I give is lost. And in the situation we're in…" his voice lowered, as if sharing a secret "…there's no way to replenish what's missing."
His words fell like a slab of stone, and the room suddenly went quiet. No one responded. The only sounds were the distant creaking of wood and the heavy breathing of the wounded.
The young man felt that this cold, calculated logic was unsettling.
Some looked at each other, frowning, trying to absorb what they had just heard. A man who weakened every time he used his resources? It was a strange, unsettling logic.
Others were left gaping, as if the coldness with which he had said it provoked a mix of respect and fear. The young man noticed how one of the girls pressed her lips together, holding back a question she never dared to ask.
And in the end, the others simply lowered their heads and returned to their tasks. Bandages, water. The rhythm of their hands was clumsier than before, as if the alchemist's words had weighed on them.
Yet, gradually, routine imposed itself, though under an invisible tension.
Then, two more figures moved. They wore the same blue uniform as the alchemist, though with fewer embroideries, fewer rank symbols: the difference was clear. Their steps were restrained, almost respectful, as if they didn't want to interrupt the gravity still hanging in the air.
They approached him carrying small glass vials that tinkled softly as they clinked together. They held them carefully, as if each contained something too volatile. In their other hand they carried crumpled papers, stained with ink and diagrams written in haste.
The young man watched them in silence. They seemed to consult him, leaning toward him seeking approval. One handed him a note, the other showed him the inside of a vial, moving it so the liquid inside—thick—caught the faint light.
The alchemist received them with the same distant calm as always. He took the paper first, scanned it with his eyes for just a few seconds, then moved to the vial, shaking it gently near his ear, as if listening to something inside. He didn't say anything immediately; he only nodded slowly, with a gesture that was half confirmation, half order to continue.
The young man didn't understand anything that was happening, but he could notice the obvious: those two weren't mere assistants. They were surely apprentices.
While the alchemist continued with his apprentices, the young man's attention began to fade.
At first it was just a tingling, a gentle warmth climbing up his forehead. He thought it was the environment, the stuffiness left after that fire. But soon he noticed it wasn't the air around him, but himself: a burning.
He frowned and, almost instinctively, brought his hand upward. The heat intensified right on the top of his head, a warm pressure that forced him to clench his teeth.
He turned to the girl beside him. She looked at him surprised by his abrupt gesture.
"Hey…" he murmured, in a thread of voice, while keeping his palm pressed against his crown. "Do I have something on my head?"
The girl observed him attentively for a second that felt eternal. And then her face changed. Her eyes widened, her jaw tensed, and the color drained from her skin.
"Help!" she shouted, with a crack of terror in her voice.
The young man froze, not fully comprehending. For a moment he thought she was exaggerating, that she had seen something else in the room. But no: her gaze was fixed on his forehead, on the top of his head.
Ah… I get it now, he thought with a sudden weight in his stomach.
In the moment he hadn't grasped the reason for the panic, but the explanation arrived suddenly, along with the sensation. The heat he had felt before began to slide downward. A warm liquid was slowly descending, tingeing his vision.
The red stain appeared first at the edge of his left eye. He tried to blink, to clear his sight, but the burning forced him to squeeze that eye shut.
His breathing grew ragged. The palm on his head then noticed the truth: the wound had reopened, and blood was running down his forehead.
Suddenly, everything dissolved. The metallic smell of blood, the girl's scream, the pressure of his palm on the wound… disappeared as if someone had lowered a curtain.
When he opened his eyes again, he was no longer in the room. Again the liquid immensity under the starry sky. The same impossible silence, the same slow ripples propagating without origin or end.
He exhaled forcefully, a breath that came out trembling.
Maybe… I passed out afterward, he thought to himself, looking at the distorted reflection of his face in the water. I must be unconscious now.
He stayed like that for a moment, breathing, letting the cold air fill his lungs.
The good thing… he added with a bitter half-smile
…is that I know I'm not dead. Because this is the second time I've been here. So it's more likely I'm just unconscious.
The young man leaned forward a little, letting the water cover up to his knees. The surface was cold, but it didn't feel wet; it felt more like a dense mirror than a real liquid. Even so, his eyes kept scanning the infinite expanse, searching for it.
The figure.
He remembered it vaguely, like a shadow, the origin of that colossal wave that had swept him away. His heart raced at the thought of seeing it again.
Last time… what pulled me out of this place was something painful, he thought, touching his temple instinctively. Although… it also almost drowned me… I think.
He looked around again, his breath shorter, tension in his nape. The uncertainty gnawed at him.
He shook his head. His hair fell over his forehead and, as he brushed it aside with a gesture, he lifted his gaze again.
He turned around slowly, taking in every angle of the infinite horizon with his sight. Stars above, below, and endless reflections. There was not a single different shadow, not a movement out of place.
"Really… it's not anywhere," he whispered, with a hint of relief mixed with disbelief.
And yet, Kaep unconsciously clenched his fists. His heart beat strongly against his ribs, not from fatigue, but from that unpleasant sensation that kept growing. He didn't need to see anything to know it: something was there, nearby, hidden.
Don't trust… doubt… think… and reason out a method.
The voice didn't come in spoken words; it was a short, cold chain that installed itself behind his eyes. Kaep went rigid. The murmur faded before he could understand if it had come from the water, the sky, or his own head.
His muscles tensed. He turned his face in all directions, seeking an origin: the stars remained motionless, the liquid mirror showed nothing but his reflection and the distant undulation.
There was nothing outside that could have uttered that. Yet the phrase vibrated in his mind with the insistence of an order.
Instinctively, he tried to respond aloud, just in case speaking it attracted or repelled whoever it was.
Only a hoarse whisper came out: "Who…?" — and the sound was lost in the expanse with no one answering. The silence returned only his own breathing.
Confusion rose in waves. Was it a residual memory from the room? The echo of someone else? Or a mechanism of his own, an internal voice he had learned to protect him? No explanation seemed certain.
As his mind focused on that forced method, the unease didn't disappear, but it organized itself.
Kaep let his eyes scan the surface again, mentally counting elements: stars, reflections, the extent of the nearest ripple.
If this was a trap, the only defense he had was the methodical lucidity the voice had demanded.