Chapter 22: Cue
Despite all her emotions, Aria was powerless to do anything.
She had always been powerless.
Now, she could only wait, trapped in the unrelenting grip of the flesh tentacles, her struggles futile. No matter how much she thrashed, how desperately she tried to claw her way free, it was useless. The tentacles held firm, dragging them all upward, pulling them out of the caverns.
Soon enough, they were pulled out of the cavern completely.
The suffocating darkness of the underground was replaced by an open, grassy meadow stretching far and wide. Short hills rolled in the distance, with the occasional tree standing alone at irregular intervals. The sky above was a bright, vivid blue—almost too perfect, too unnatural. Yet, there was no sun. No source for the light that bathed the landscape in an eerie, shadowless glow.
The tentacles loosened their grip. With a sickening squelch, they dropped Ignis, Aria, and Aurthur onto the grass. But not Oswin.
Ignis, regaining her footing quickly, took a cautious glance toward the thing that had brought them here. It clung to the side of the cavern's gaping opening like some grotesque parasite, a writhing mass of flesh, eyes, and tendrils. The way it pulsed, shifting and expanding with slow, rhythmic movements. The countless unblinking eyes scattered across its form twitched and flickered, watching everything.
Like moss on a cliffside, it clung and thrived.
"There is a settlement here where other subjects live. Find it yourself."
Caro's voice dripped with mockery, her tone making it clear she cared little whether they succeeded or not.
Aria stiffened, her hands trembling as she gripped the grass beneath her. She didn't want to leave. She didn't want to abandon Fray to this horror. But what could she do? What had she ever been able to do?
Oswin didn't want to be separated from Aria either. The thought of her being out there, alone, without him—it unsettled him in a way he couldn't quite place. But he tried to rationalize it. Ignis was here. She was a member of the Church. Surely, she would protect citizens to the best of her ability. That was her duty. Right? Oswin forced himself to believe that.
But it was Aria who was the hardest to convince. She sobbed, clinging to the ground like a desperate child, her hands refusing to let go of the earth beneath her as if it would somehow keep her here. Ignis, her face grim, grabbed her by the wrist and pulled. Aria resisted, feet dragging against the grass, silent cries shaking her small frame. But Ignis was firm.
They had to go. They had to find the settlement.
Oswin did not say anything. He couldn't.
Caro had stolen his voice.
He could only watch as Aria still struggling against Ignis's grip, still reaching for him even as she was dragged further and further away. Her form grew smaller with every step, until at last, she disappeared beyond the horizon.
Then, before he could do anything else—before he could even think—more tentacles surged toward him like countless serpents.
They coiled around his body, tightening, constricting, squeezing.
Oswin felt the pressure crush against his ribs, his limbs locked in place. His vision blurred, dark spots creeping at the edges. His body screamed for air, but none came.
His thoughts blurred. His consciousness spiraled. Then—nothing.
When Oswin's consciousness returned, he found himself lying on a bed in a sufficiently lit cabin. The scent of fresh air drifted in from the open window beside him, carrying with it the crispness of nature.
Oswin slowly moved his fingers, then his arms. He was free. No restraints, no tentacles holding him down.
His body—still unclothed—was strangely clean, as if the filth and blood from before had been scrubbed away.
Oswin gasped. His throat itched unbearably, dry and raw. Instinctively, he swallowed, trying to soothe the irritation. It barely helped, but as his throat adjusted, a small, rough sound escaped his lips—
"Ah."
His eyes widened. He could speak again.
Oswin barely had time to process this before he realized—he was no longer restrained.
"See? I told you."
The mocking voice echoed around the cavern, familiar and infuriating.
"He seems to be under a psychological cue, maybe something implanted by the Great Grand Masters, throughout all our interactions, I tried to break his mind—but he didn't break."
A chuckle.
"What do you think?"
Caro's voice slithered into his ears, sharp and taunting as ever.
Oswin's gaze settled on the two figures beside the bed.
Caro stood in the same form he had first seen her in—her usual mocking smirk playing on her lips, her light green robe draped lazily over her form and her red hair flowing like a waterfall over her back. But beside her was someone new.
A man, appearing to be in his sixties, with short white hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a blue velvet tuxedo, refined and pristine, and in his right hand, he held an ornate cane. His presence was composed, exuding a quiet authority that contrasted with Caro's eerie playfulness.
"It is true," the man said, his voice deep and measured. "But the cue does not seem too powerful for someone of that level. Still… it is stronger than anything I could conjure."
He tapped his cane lightly against the wooden floor, his sharp eyes studying Oswin as though he were an anomaly, something unnatural.
"The Great Grand Master must have been inflicted with an unimaginable amount of spirit influence when bringing over all his memories… and this is all they could have mustered."
His tone carried intrigue, but also a tinge of disappointment. As if he had expected more.
The man stepped closer to Oswin, disappointment clear on his face. "First, let's find out exactly what cues have been planted," he murmured.
With a measured motion, he grasped the head of his cane and pulled—revealing a hidden flute connected seamlessly to the shaft. Bringing the curved end to his lips, he began to play.
A shrill, nearly imperceptible sound filled the cavern, seeping into the air like an unseen force. But the effect was immediate.
Agony exploded in Oswin's skull. It was as if sharp needles were scraping the inside of his brain, burrowing into thoughts he wasn't even aware of. His vision blurred, his limbs jerked uncontrollably, and he collapsed, clutching his head. The pain was unbearable—raw, inescapable, digging deeper with every second.
He rolled on the bed, gasping, his fingers clawing at his scalp as though trying to tear the sensation away. His body spasmed, convulsing under the relentless assault.
Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the sound ceased.
The pain vanished instantly, leaving only its ghostly echoes behind. But Oswin was ruined. His body felt disconnected from his mind, drained of all strength. His chest rose and fell in ragged, shallow breaths, sweat clinging to his skin. He wanted to move—to sit up, to resist—but his muscles refused to respond.
The old man sighed, a trace of intrigue lacing his expression.
"The cues were designed to make him ignore traumatic experiences and prevent him from overthinking things that could harm his mind," he mused. "A safeguard to protect his mind. Without them, he would have already shattered under the weight of everything he has endured."
He glanced down at Oswin, who remained sprawled on the fleshy ground, still struggling to regain control of his body. His fingers twitched slightly, his breath shallow but steady.
"But that's not what surprises me," the man continued, his voice carrying a note of curiosity. "What truly intrigues me is the sheer limit of these cues. All psychological cues have there constraints—there's only so much it can suppress before the mind reaches its breaking point. But for him..."
He trailed off, tilting his head slightly. His sharp eyes studied Oswin with renewed interest, as though examining a fascinating experiment.
"For him, the threshold is abnormally high. Far beyond what should be possible."
He chuckled, almost to himself. "Now I wonder—just how much trauma can he withstand before his mind finally breaks?"
Oswin's breathing steadied unnaturally fast, his body instinctively adjusting to the aftermath of the pain. It was as if his mind refused to dwell on the agony, pushing it away like a fleeting memory. The old man's sharp gaze didn't miss this detail.
"Ah, so the cues truly are working," he murmured, half to himself. Then, in a deliberate tone, he spoke again, this time drawing Oswin's full attention.
"So, Oswin," the old man said, his voice carrying a mix of amusement and accusation, "you have effectively killed a person named Fray—taken his body as your own, wearing his corpse like a suit. And now, you walk around his sister, pretending as if nothing has changed, pretending to be something you are not."
His expression darkened slightly.
"Tell me, Oswin… does the guilt ever claw at you?"