Chapter 28: Misjudged Importance
Oswin was sitting by the riverbank, beneath an open, moonless, starless sky. His extra, skinless arms had begun to recover—they were dry now, no longer leaking bodily fluids. He used them to brace himself against the ground, supporting his seated posture, while his original arms remained folded across his chest.
Oswin was sorting through his knowledge of Hymns, stabilizing the fragmented information in his mind while his thoughts wandered to the possibilities before him.
"Could I cut off these extra limbs and heal the wounds?" he wondered. But after a moment of contemplation, he dismissed the idea. "With my current level, I wouldn't be able to heal the wounds instantly. The bleeding would weaken me."
Letting out a sigh, he muttered to himself, "There's nothing I can do for now." His gaze shifted around the unfamiliar land, his expression darkening. "How do people even live here?"
Oswin sat there, lost in thought, his mind drifting aimlessly.
"What are you, Oswin or Fray?"
A soft female voice broke through his thoughts.
"I am Oswin," he replied instinctively.
"So you're Oswin," the voice echoed, almost amused. "That means you practically killed Fray, took over his body, and now you're interacting with Fray's sister as if you're not wearing his corpse. Do you not feel any guilt?"
The question reached his ears, but his mind refused to process it. He understood the words, yet his thoughts scattered, drifting elsewhere like leaves caught in the wind.
"What do you want? Who are you?" Oswin asked, his tone devoid of emotion.
"Me? You've met me before. We had a short but meaningful conversation."
Oswin frowned. "I don't recognize your voice."
"Voice? Oh, Oswin... voice is a fragile thing." The speaker chuckled softly. "But you know me. I was with Caro—the old man. My name is Deprimentes Cogitationes. Caro calls me Depri."
"That old man? He was..." Oswin paused. "Was a man."
He wasn't shocked—just mildly surprised. In a world where Hymns and magic existed, nearly anything was possible for someone proficient enough in music.
"That old body is just something I use normally. In your terms, it's like my favorite set of clothes—something I wear regularly."
A brief silence followed.
"But that's not the point."
"I was here to check on your condition. It seems it has improved a lot."
"It has?" Oswin blinked, glancing down at his arms. His extra, skinless limbs had dried, no longer leaking fluids. He could use them for support, pressing against the ground without wincing.
"I will come to the point—I have a test for you. If you pass, I will answer a few of your questions."
"What test?"
Before Oswin could process the words, a figure stepped forward. A woman, nearly identical to him in build and shape, with blonde curls framing her face, wearing a piece of cloth extending from her shoulders to her thighs.
"Defeat this vessel," The vessel said. "I chose this one specifically for you. It matches your proportions, your form. This will be your opponent."
Oswin narrowed his eyes. "Why a vessel? With all of Caro's eldritch abilities, couldn't she just make an exact copy of my body?"
The vessel chuckled, the sound dry and dismissive. "It seems you've greatly overestimated how much importance we put on you. We're simply curious about you—not enough to waste effort crafting something so intricate."
"I see."
Oswin wasn't hurt—at least, not emotionally. But the realization settled in: he wasn't as important to them as he had assumed. If they ever decided he was unnecessary, they wouldn't hesitate to discard him.
"Do I get a weapon?" he asked, pushing himself up with his raw, skinless arms.
"No, but you get to hit first," the Vessel said as he stepped forward, positioning himself with a stance—left foot forward, right foot back, chin tucked, hands up in a guarded position. His knees bent slightly, body poised for movement.
Oswin tilted his head. "You're using... boxing? Do I have to use boxing too, or can I fight however I want?"
"Boxing? What is that?" The vessel asked, his tone genuinely curious. "Fight however you want, I won't sing any hymns."
Oswin hesitated, his mind running through his options. He had fought before, it had ended in death. Then came prison, where violence was a constant. He had seen fights break out over nothing, had been beaten down more times than he could count. But in that suffering, he had learned how to move, how to slip away from hits.
But now... he wasn't the same. His body was heavier. The extra arms threw off his balance, made him slower, clunkier. His old instincts told him to dodge, but could he still move like before? He didn't know how to start this fight.
Depri stood there, patient, waiting.
Oswin made a decision.
His movements were slow, deliberate—each step measured as he approached the vessel.
With an awkward shift of weight, he raised his leg and drove a hard kick into the vessel's stomach. The impact was solid—he felt it. But the response wasn't what he expected.
The vessel didn't flinch.
A thin line of saliva dripped from its mouth, but its expression remained unchanged. Then, a grin stretched across its face—slow, deliberate, unsettling.
Before Oswin could pull back, the vessel's hand shot out, seizing his left arm—the one covered in skin.
The vessel yanked his arm forward, dragging him off balance before driving a swift kick into his left ribs. A sharp pain exploded in Oswin's side, and a thick glob of saliva forced its way out of his mouth. But Oswin ignored the pain or rather his mind did not register the pain in the first place.
Yanking his arm free from the vessel's grasp, he retaliated. His hands swung wildly, a flurry of desperate punches aimed at anything they could reach. But the vessel was faster. It weaved through his attacks effortlessly, each movement precise, calculated.
Oswin's strikes hit nothing but air.