The feeling of displacement lifted at last as I stood in front of my home.
Home.
The word felt strange on my tongue. Familiar, but distant. Yet... it had a nice ring to it.
Thales stepped across the threshold. The walls—silent, structured, familiar—offered relief after all the horror and surrealism of that country. The chaos of memory rivers, time distortions, and glassed wastelands gave way to solidity. Security.
Maybe this house was never a cage.
Maybe it was a gate.
His body was worn down. His stomach gnawed at him with hunger. His basic needs had been long neglected. His mind wandered.
Fish curry sounds good.
He passed through the halls, intending to relay his request to the chefs. But just before he could speak—
A figure stood in his path.
And Thales' heart nearly tore through his chest.
"You look like you died. A lot," the man said, voice like forged iron.
"Sit down."
It was him—the regal one.
The supposed brother.
Thales froze in place. The man stepped forward, calm, absolute.
"In fact, come here. You don't need this anymore."
"What do you mean?" Thales asked cautiously.
The man withdrew a blade.
Before Thales could react, the edge sliced through the air.
Instinctively, he flinched—but his eyes remained open.
A strange strip of fabric unravelled and fell from his chest, dissolving mid-air like ash.
"Ah. A Mobius Strip," the man said, satisfied. "You were in a low-level time loop."
"…Do you know who placed it on me?"
"It looks like a collaboration. You're not permitted to die an unnatural death. Not until we enter the Natural Selection of Castalia."
He sheathed the blade.
"But I can't cultivate weak material, either. So I need you to grow."
"Thou shalt not die by means of thine own strength."
"…You hungry?"
"No," Thales lied.
His stomach betrayed him with a loud growl.
"I'll take that as a yes."
The man snapped his fingers. A tray of food was presented by the house staff.
"What would you like?"
"…Just a bowl of rice."
The man smirked.
"Start with this, too."
He handed over a small porcelain cup.
Thales stared at the tea's surface.
"How was this made? Or rather... where did you import it from?"
"We didn't import it," the man said. "Nor did I as an individual."
"It was created through chaos cultivation."
He leaned back, speaking with casual precision.
"The fruit used is a fragment of wisdom. Its root lies in the Egg of Chaos, but wisdom and chaos are intimately linked. That's why this tea raises not just physical prowess or environmental affinity, but one's understanding."
"Oolong, specifically. Try it with moon cakes."
Thales sipped.
The warmth soaked into him like soft light.
He took a bite of the moon cake. For a moment, he smiled—genuinely.
"…It's good."
"Enjoy it, piggy," the man said with unsettling cheer. "It's important to relax. I'm definitely going to kill you and use you as a tool later. But I can't do that if you're starving and weak."
"I see you as a kindred spirit, so just this once—I'll help you."
Thales' eyes darkened.
"So... in this world, there's no need to compete over territory. Resources seem abundant. Yet you all still wage conflict?"
The man gave a half-laugh, half-sigh.
"That's the human spirit."
"Utopias belong to realms not of the physical. But I will rule an eternal empire. That has been my aspiration for a long, long time."
He leaned in closer.
"Too bad you exist only as a means to achieve that dream."
Thales stared at him.
"…Good. I'm glad this isn't a utopia. That would be equally boring."
"Conflict and cooperation are both needed. Only in that paradox can we truly reach the entelechy of existence."
"Entelechy, huh?"
The man's smile curved.
"You think you're an emperor?"
"I'll show you what it means... to kneel."
The Mystery.
How could I forget?
I must plan.
Leverage every resource, every absurdity.
All to love the Mystery.
To dance in its ballroom.
With whom?
With the one only the Mystery can bring.
I wish to have it all.
I wish to be it all.
I wish to live—in the truest sense of the word.
Chaos—my loyal servant.
All in the name of the Mystery.
Why?
I don't know. Merely an intuition.
But it's one I'll chase beyond the end of time.
No longer dwelling.
But neither being.
Dreamless... but awake.
The man stood, cutting off Thales' thoughts.
"You are a rare item, Thales. But an item nonetheless."
"Farewell—until our next feast."
"…What about my rice?"
The man paused at the door.
"Oh. Call for it yourself, peasant."
He smiled like titanium. Hard. Unyielding.
Thales clenched his fists.
That man's presence reminded him—despite all his spirit, all his longing, all his growth—
Thales Miray is still weak.