Chapter 23: Pain, Fear, and the Mind
The old man's words struck Oswin like a hammer.
He wanted to think about them.
He wanted to analyze them.
He wanted to remember them.
But the moment the words entered his mind—he ignored them.
Not by choice.
Not out of denial.
It was as if his mind refused to register them at all.
The thought of him occupying Fray's body, of him wearing Fray's corpse, of him interacting with Aria as if nothing had happened—it simply slipped away the instant it formed.
Like water through his fingers. Like a dream fading upon waking.
Oswin's breath hitched. Something was wrong. His thoughts felt… unnatural. Forced. Every time he even tried to acknowledge the old man's accusation, a numbness spread through his head, forcing the realization away before it could fully form.
His hands trembled.
Caro smirked. "See? Just like I said."
The old man hummed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I wonder how long he can endure before the cracks start to show, before he begins to question his very identity."
Oswin stared blankly at them, unable to respond—not because he didn't want to, but because he couldn't.
Something inside him wouldn't let him.
The old man observed this reaction with intrigue, then spoke again, his voice calm and deliberate.
"Tell me, Oswin. Have you ever considered the possibility that you were never Oswin to begin with? That you are not a foreign soul in Fray's body… but rather Fray himself, your memories and personality merely altered beyond recognition?"
Oswin heard the question, but once again, no response came. It wasn't hesitation or defiance—his mind simply refused to process it. The words entered his ears but never settled, dissolving before they could form a coherent thought.
"It seems any question related to identity is directly ignored, not even acknowledged. His mind refuses to even entertain the idea."
Caro tilted her head, a smirk playing on her lips. "Does he ignore physical pain too?"
"Have you not tested that yet?" the old man asked, raising an eyebrow.
Caro shrugged. "No, I didn't have the chance."
The old man nodded thoughtfully. "Then we'll have to see for ourselves." His gaze flickered to the walls of the cozy cabin, pristine and undisturbed. "But not here. I'd rather not stain this place."
Caro chuckled. "Fair enough."
"Let's go." the old man said.
Oswin obeyed.
Not out of force, not out of fear—but simply because he felt like he could trust the man. Even after the pain he had just endured, even knowing this man had inflicted it upon him, an unshakable sense of trust lingered in his mind. It made no sense. Yet, he followed without hesitation.
Caro led the way, the old man walking beside her, and Oswin followed, stepping out of the cabin.
The fresh air hit him first, crisp and cool, carrying the scent of grass and earth. The landscape stretched before them—an open grassy meadow, rolling hills in the distance, occasional trees swaying gently under a sky still bright and sunless.
Oswin didn't question anything.
He simply walked.
They walked until they were just a few steps away from the cabin, stopping beneath the shade of a lone tree.
"This place is fine," Caro said.
"Now, let's begin," the old man added.
And just like that—all the trust Oswin had felt toward him was gone.
It wasn't gradual. It wasn't a slow realization creeping into his mind. No, it was instant—one moment, he trusted the man unconditionally, and the next, he didn't.
Oswin stiffened. Why?
It hit Oswin like a truck.
So many times before, Performers around him had acted without performing at all.
Ignis—when she had kicked him in the belly—hadn't sung.
Caro—when she had stolen his voice—hadn't sung either.
They were using mystical abilities without hymns.
And now, this old man had done the same.
He must have charmed Oswin into trusting him.
But how?
The question lingered in Oswin's mind, demanding an answer.
But he wasn't given the liberty to think.
There was a hand on his chest—soft, delicate fingers pressing against his skin.
He hadn't even noticed it before.
His body lurched. Not by his will.
The muscle tendons beneath his skin squirmed, writhing like maggots in rotting flesh.
A grotesque, unnatural sensation.
Horror gripped him. A cold, primal fear.
His own flesh wasn't his own.
He tried to scream, but his jaw muscles convulsed—his face twisted into something inhuman.
He knew it was Caro's doing.
And Caro...
She was smiling.
The old man observed curiously, his sharp eyes gleaming with intrigue. "Seems like when truly disturbed, fear and horror—which are normally ignored—are registered after all."
He tapped his cane against the ground lightly, watching Oswin's face contort, the swirling tendrils of his own flesh shifting against his will. The sheer terror in Oswin's eyes was unmistakable, barely recognizable beneath the grotesque, undulating movement of his muscles.
"It makes sense," the old man continued, more to himself than anyone else. "If he truly didn't register fear or horror at all, it would lead him to make rash decisions, running headfirst into danger without hesitation. That would defeat the purpose of the psychological conditioning."
His lips curled slightly, as if delighted by his own discovery. "No… this cue is more layered than I initially thought. It does not suppress fear entirely—it only controls when and how it manifests. A safeguard, ensuring he doesn't break... but also ensuring he doesn't act recklessly."
The old man tilted his head, considering something.
"Oswin, do you feel pain?" he asked.
Oswin realized—yes, he was in pain. The sensation of his tendons writhing beneath his skin was deeply uncomfortable, a mix of sharp pain, unbearable itchiness. Yet, before the question was asked, he hadn't even considered it. His mind had been too consumed by fear and horror to register the agony.
The old man smiled, his eyes glinting with satisfaction.
"It seems that when in a state of fear or horror, the subject ignores pain," he mused, as if piecing together a puzzle. Without missing a beat, he turned to Caro. "Stop."
Caro withdrew her hand, and instantly, Oswin's body returned to normal—the unnatural movement ceased, his muscles stilling. The fear that had gripped his mind faded into the background, and with it, the pain fully registered. His body ached. The remnants of that crawling sensation still lingered, his skin tingling as if something had burrowed just beneath the surface.
The old man wasted no time. "Tell me, Oswin—have you ignored pain even outside of fear?"
Oswin hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then, before he could even think about why—before he could question the shift in his emotions—he found himself trusting the old man again.
Completely.
Unconditionally.
For no reason at all.
"Yes," Oswin answered truthfully.
Oswin's voice was steady, devoid of hesitation.
"When escaping from our house during the night—when moss corpses invaded the city—I used the power of hymns to move a crank, to start an automobile from a distance. Due to my previous world experience and talent, the hymn was amplified. My body was in pain while singing, but after the automobile started… all the pain vanished. My sister and I rushed toward it, and even though my body should have been aching, I felt nothing."
He spoke truthfully. Not a single lie.
Why would he lie?
He trusted the man.
Then—just as suddenly as before—the trust shattered. His mind snapped back into its usual wary state, and his thoughts turned sharp with suspicion.
Why?
Why had he trusted him at all?
The old man was a friend of Caro. An abomination like her. A fiend.
Oswin's gut twisted.
He should never have trusted him.
Yet he did.
"It seems like while in a state of emergency, the subject ignores pain." the old man mused, his tone laced with intrigue.
Oswin gritted his teeth. His mind was still reeling from the unnatural shifts in trust, the way it came and went like a manipulated instinct rather than a conscious decision. He didn't like it. He didn't like any of this.
His gaze flickered toward Caro, then back to the man. He could feel that something had been done to him, but he couldn't grasp what.
The old man continued, tapping his cane lightly against the ground.
"So far, we know that Major trauma is ignored, deep fear forces it to the be registered, and even in high-"
"Hold!"
Oswin interrupted. His voice was firm, cutting through the old man's words without hesitation.
"I answered your questions."
For a brief moment, silence.
Caro's smirk faltered, her head tilting slightly in amusement. The old man simply watched him, unreadable.
Oswin knew this was dangerous. Defying them—interrupting them—could get him killed. But they wouldn't. Not yet. They needed him. They wanted to study him.
"Caro promised me answers for answers," Oswin continued, his eyes locked onto the old man's. "I've answered. Now I want mine."
The old man's cane hovered just above the ground. Then, with a quiet tap, it made contact again.
A chuckle. Deep, amused.
"Fascinating," the old man murmured. "Even after everything, you still assert yourself."
Oswin didn't waver. He knew hesitation would make them dismiss him. He had to push forward.
If he could know it—if he could understand—he had hope. Hope to survive whatever came next.
"Very well," the old man said, his gaze sharp with intrigue. "What do you wish to know?."