I don't know how much time had passed, but I was still floating face-to-face with that colossal dark hand.
The deep blue eye in its palm stared into me, unblinking. But why? What had I done to deserve this gaze?
Finally, it spoke again.
"What is your existence for?"
I had no words. What could I possibly say?
I chose silence, but the voice returned almost immediately.
"Look at yourself!"
My confusion deepened, yet I raised both hands to examine them—only to feel a brutal impact against my back, as though something had struck to snap my spine in two.
Pain forced my eyes shut tight. But after a few seconds, the agony vanished strangely, and I opened them again, glancing downward.
I was rising at terrifying speed, and the reason became clear below me.
Big Ben towered far larger and taller than it ever should have, still surging upward even faster than I was.
Seizing the moment, I reached out as it closed in and grabbed one of the massive clock hands.
The instant my fingers closed around it, the tower's ascent halted abruptly.
I was flung upward. In the final heartbeat, I desperately clutched one of the ornamental finials crowning the top.
The momentum died, and I slammed hard onto the roof.
"Damn it…"
I pressed a hand to my jaw, only to feel that strange pressure return. The dark hand with its deep blue eye hovered several meters away, watching.
The eye fixed on me as the voice commanded,
"Look down!"
It felt like an order I couldn't refuse. Reluctantly, I edged forward and leaned over.
What I saw below was nothing like what I expected.
London sprawled out—the Thames glinting, the Palace of Westminster, the city itself, distant churches rising majestically despite the distance.
No mist obscured the view, yet… there were no people. Not a single soul moved in the streets.
Under my breath, to convince myself, I whispered,
"I probably just can't see them from up here."
The voice returned.
"Do you believe what you see is real?"
Fear crept into my throat as I answered softly,
"Y-Yes…"
The hand spread its fingers wider.
"Are you certain?"
I looked down again—and every building exploded in sequence, only to dissolve into swirling mist upon destruction.
When I turned back to the hand, its tone grew merciless.
"You are such a fool that you confuse illusion with reality…"
My hands clenched into fists. I screamed into the void,
"Then tell me what to do! Is there even anything I can do?"
I collapsed to my knees atop Big Ben, head bowed low.
I truly didn't know what to do. Did I even need to do anything at all?
The voice drifted back, calm yet distant.
"Seek the truth… but only for as long as you can bear it."
I opened my mouth to respond, but it continued,
"Your size, compared to the truths and realities of this world, is far too small…"
I stared into the deep blue eye and said,
"I know… I know I'm tiny. But what if I keep searching anyway? What if I want to understand the true scale of this world's truths?"
Its reply came muffled, unclear—as though spoken from the bottom of an abyss.
I was about to ask it to repeat itself when the voice suddenly sharpened.
"It is over…"
I didn't grasp the meaning at first.
Then the mist collapsed inward. Big Ben shattered like glass beneath me, and everything plunged into darkness.
───────────────────────────
A faint, irritating light shone against my eyelids.
I forced them open with effort. The brightness stung, but it was bearable.
As my vision adjusted, I saw something I almost wished I hadn't.
I was inside a carriage. Two men sat opposite me: the elderly servant in his familiar livery, and another in more formal attire.
Both smiled the moment they saw my eyes open.
I wanted to ask what had happened, but I couldn't let them know I'd forgotten everything.
So I composed myself, adopting a serious expression. I crossed my right leg over my left and asked calmly,
"Where are we going?"
The old servant gently pointed out the window.
"The House of Lords, my lord. I told you we must leave within two hours, but when I entered your room, I found you collapsed on the floor."
To appear thoughtful, I gazed outside and murmured,
"I see… But how did you get me into the carriage?"
The man beside the servant—pipe in hand—answered with quiet assurance,
"With my help."
I studied him for a moment. I opened my mouth to speak, but a sudden, sharp headache struck.
I raised my right hand to my temple, gripping the side of my head.
Flashes—rapid, successive images of moments with this man—flooded my mind.
Yet why couldn't I remember any of it?
The pain vanished as quickly as it came.
I looked at both men, who now watched me with faint surprise and concern.
I cleared my throat to maintain my composure and said softly,
"Thank you… advisor."
The man with the pipe smiled and turned to the elderly servant.
"See? I told you His Grace hasn't suffered memory loss."
The old servant glanced at me, his smile warm.
"Indeed. It seems I've grown far too old to trust the words of physicians!"
I forced a smile—one born of ignorance, but necessary to convince them.
In my own mind, that smile felt essential in the moment; otherwise, they might think I was merely acting.
Lost in these thoughts, the carriage suddenly halted.
The door opened slowly.
A soldier stood outside. After swinging the door wide, he stepped back, bowed his head, and said,
"I welcome your arrival to the House of Lords, Duke of Manchester."
With calm dignity, I rose from the seat and stepped down from the carriage.
The soldier retreated further, raised his head slightly, and gestured ahead.
The grand edifice of the Palace of Westminster loomed before me.
And my only choice—my first and final one—was to enter Parliament for the meeting of the House of Lords.