At the back of the room, a three-headed lion looms in front of the peeling wood of the door. Hidden in shadow where the sunlight doesn't reach, he stands erect and apathetic as he daydreams of death and destruction.

  I know its presence without recognizing its power, its appearance without observing it, its intention without questioning it. To the monsters of the Unknown, merely 'being' is enough.

  I open my eyes. Blurred vision complements the high-pitched ringing in my ears. My chest is heavy. Numbness prevents me from moving my body, spreading like the taste of iron in my mouth. I breathe in and wait for the initial numbness that comes with the nightmare to leave my body. In a few minutes, I feel the blood flowing and tact reconstructing the limits of my prison of flesh.

  The warmth of the morning sun come to my face, the birdsong replaces the static hum. Order is imposed on my mind as the shock of the resurrection fades.

  Resurrection. The word had already lost its meaning for me. I can count on my fingers how many battles I've won in the world of nightmares, but I can't remember a single one. Memories are lost between the pain of a severed arm and the blurred images of the death of its own cause.

  Resurrection.

  But I hadn't died, had I? No. That much I remember. Not today.

  Today, something saved me.

  Someone.

  I sit in my bed, lethargic.

  The more I use magic, the worse the effects of Chaos get. On my shoulder, a dull yellow seal cuts the emission of my mana in half and prevents the village from being contaminated.

  No one grows muscles just by reading a book on how to exercise. Knowledge of oneself and the outside world is the basis for magic, but nothing matters without practice. The greater the limitation, the less training I can do, so the less control I can exert. In turn, the greater the side effects the next time I use magic.

  The simple solution would be to stop using magic. Unfortunately, that's impossible. Consuming the oasis I've built in the Unknown every day I don't spend fighting its progress, Chaos would eventually find a way to explode out of my veins and cause a hurricane or an earthquake.

  So, using magic destroys me, and so does not use it enough. The vicious cycle would only be broken when Chaos was conquered once and for all. With the technique and knowledge I currently possess, trying to do this is the equivalent of trying to drink the ocean with a cup.

  If it weren't for the priests, I’d have been executed by now. Slow or fast, it will happen anyway.

  In my ramblings, I've concluded that the Unknown is the ultimate expression of Chaos—but that's the limit of my knowledge. I don't know what it represents, what exactly it is, or what its depth and reality are.

  For someone who supposedly beat the Unknown, the effects are worse than usual. Perhaps he has a conscience of his own, and the reason for the exacerbated side effects is that he doesn't regard outside interference as a just victory.

  Although the inference of the sense of personhood seems right to me, the sense of justice is ridiculous. It would be easier if this were his childish revenge against me. If this is the case, the creature will have done me more harm than good.

  But there's no way of predicting anything now, and rambling on about it won't help me. I'm alive, and that's better than someone like me can ask for. It would be better if I did something about it.

  I breathe in, pick up the thorny iron sphere on the table next to my bed and the prayer beads. I close my eyes and repeat the simple prayers I've known for as long as I can remember out loud.

  To open up to the divine is to defy the wrath of the profane. Like moths guided by flames, the cacophony of the Unknown screams deafening whispers in my ears. False memories invade my mind, fragments of what was and what Chaos would like to be.

  Weeping and gnashing of teeth. I was infinite, and I walked through it. I tasted flesh, and its texture ran through my hands. Before the river of memories took me to the Gate at the end of my consciousness, I felt the sharp pain run through my hand.

  Droplets fall against the wooden floor. The smell of blood invades my sense of smell, enhanced by my closed eyes. The shock of flesh sinking against steel restores my consciousness. Pain is still pain—I can still feel it vividly. At the same time, even though the Unknown is milder, he had shown me much worse wounds.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  I swallow and continue to recite the words. Minute by minute, I feel the unease wash away from my body like a dirty rug in the rain. With it, the frivolous stability of reality replaces the comfortable suspension in the void of randomness. I would leave them locked behind the Gate, praying -- even begrudgingly—never to feel it again.

  Finally, I open my eyes and face the door. Persisting in its existence, the Lion stares back at me.

  With no other options, I stand up.

  My bed is in the left-hand area above the window. Next to the bed is a table with books and grimoires on it. I place the orb and beads on it, then go to the cupboard next to the bathroom door. I take out an old shirt and pretend to discard it for the sake of taste, throwing it over the Lion. The shirt passes through him like an illusion, and the confirmation relieves me.

  I go into the bathroom pretending to have given up on changing, wash my hand and tie it with the cleanest cloth I can find, then head for the bedroom door and cross the beast as well as the shirt, finding myself in the living room.

  There is a wooden table in the middle of the room and a makeshift fireplace on the wall next to it. On the other side, a small, rustic kitchen has its own space, separated from the rest by a small wall. Inside, there is a wood-burning oven, water in a clay filter and “decoration” on the edges and surfaces with rough stone.

  The wood creaks as if rotten as I walk outside. Orange wood and the ill-will of the citizens had built the place so that, lovingly speaking, I could have a proper place.

  Outside, I breathe in the fresh air and smell the forest, freshly moistened with dew. The cold morning wind complements the mild heat, remnants of yesterday's dense clouds. Especially in this weather, a normal person would be surrounded by mosquitoes. Making parasites uncomfortable with your presence is the best part of being hated.

  In front of me, a dark green garden stretches out, dead flowers lying on the ground. It was alive when I arrived here, ten years ago, when I was four. My influence and lack of tact killed it, but it wasn't enough to destroy everything. Maybe I could bring him back someday.

  I walk to the center of the garden and hear some bones crack. I had slept late last night as a result of studying too much for the entrance exam.

  Now, I don't like self-imposed suffering, but exercise is important to prevent me from becoming sedentary. Because of this, I stretch in the garden and, when I've finished, I get into position and begin the pathetic attempts to do a push-up.

  Time flies by as I finish my push-ups and run in circles, doing squats, sit-ups and jumping jacks. Automatically, I return to myself only when I realize that my body can no longer support itself. Finally, I realize that the pain and bleeding in my hand has returned.

  It was normal for the little memory holes to occur. Contrary to normality, however, I feel my stomach growling.

  Hungry?

  It's been a long time since I've felt that. Never got used to the feeling. I stretch my body once more and return to the house to look for food, but the tinned food shelf is empty. I frown, swearing I filled it up sometime during the week. Not only that, but I search all the other shelves and feel around the kitchen to make sure it's not an illusion of Chaos, but I can't find anything.

  Hm.

  I glance at the table in the center of the room. Normally, mana constructs require the summoner to maintain their form. Without doing so, they would disappear—even if they were in my stomach. In my case, it's not wise to use magic for something so trivial.

  Even so, my hand reaches across the table by instinct. An apple is small enough that I don't feel hungry, and it shouldn't hurt that much.

  “…”

  Of course, I won't fall into such an obvious trap. Instead, I look out of the window to deduce what time it is before checking the wooden clock on the wall.

  Forty minutes.

  I take a machete, walk out of the house and head to the right, towards the village. I deviate from the path on one of the dirt roads that take me deeper into the forest and use the blade to cut the vines.

  The mild temperature wouldn't last long before the midday sun tried to imitate hell. I'd have to hurry, but it's a lot of work to run through the forest without tripping or getting calluses after training.

  Contrary to what hysterical mothers think, wild animals are not so problematic. Cases of attack are rare, except in the deepest parts. Even if they weren't, they can't hurt me - and they wouldn't come near me to do it in the first place. Apart from men, the only danger in the village is outside.

  Even far from the village, my house still keeps its distance from the barrier that protects it from the monsters. It's uncommon for them to get through it, but it's not impossible. Recently, everyone has heard the rumors. Disappearances. Kidnappings. Deaths.

  A month ago, one case a month seemed to be the norm. Now, one a week. On one of my visits, I told Fairy Lady Lake that sometimes the lesser evil is the way to do good.

  You could find last month's records if you looked, but only the rumors of the last one. How could they publicize them, after all, in the middle of the Hunting Festival? Wasn't it the village's purpose to show how far they'd come? How could they disappoint their people and lower the morale of their guards?

  As long as nothing strong enough to destroy the village—or kill me, as a comparison—wasn't noticed, there was no reason to stop the Festival.

  Something that could invade the Unknown itself is different. I'd have to sort it out with the village elders at the latest. For now, not daring to leave the trail is enough.

  It's not long before I come across the merigold trees, their leaves perpetually yellow because of the fruit they produce. About the size of my head, the fruit is vivid and bright yellow, as round as a ball and as smooth as polished metal.

  I pick up a stone from the ground and stretch out my arm, then I throw the stone and explode the branch that was supporting the fruit. I run towards it and, in a split second, grab it before it crashes to the ground.

  A good feeling runs through my chest. It's hard to achieve the glorious skill of dropping fruit. The birds sing of my victory and a light breeze blows across my face. I eat the fruit, go back to study some more and—

  I stop.

  …?

  I frown, then turn towards the forest. A strange feeling compels me.

  I stare into the woods for a few seconds and see that the fruit is gone. A shiver runs down the base of my spine, although I feel my temperature rising. My body feels heavy, and the hunger I had forgotten about now aches in my stomach.

  That feeling--

  Something’s off.

  Black figures tear through the sky—crows flee in screams and let leaves fall to the ground. I drop the fruit to the ground, then sharpen my machete against what lurks in the green.

  A stone cracks against dry wood. The merigold fruit falls from above, and a golden figure bursts out of the wood at speed to reach it before it falls—and it does.

  Elron grins from ear to ear when he sees his success.

  “You’re getting slow!”

  “…?”