Chapter 31
Oswin sat stiffly in a wooden chair, its legs uneven, creaking under his weight every time he shifted. Arthur was sprawled casually on a thin mattress laid directly on the floor—what he called his bed. It barely looked like more than a thick sheet stuffed with straw, but Arthur didn't seem to mind.
The boy's wide eyes were fixed on him, shining with that same disarming innocence.
For the past several minutes, Arthur had been endlessly asking questions and dumping settlement gossip into Oswin's head like an excited child with no concept of personal space.
Arthur's voice echoed in Oswin's mind—again.
"The hands, do they hurt? Can you control them? Do they feel weird?"
The tone was curious, almost excited. There was no actual sound.
It was starting to wear on him.
And yet, when he glanced at Arthur…
That absurdly earnest face.
Brows tilted up just enough to look harmless, lips pressed together like he was holding back a smile, and those wide, too-large eyes—open, expectant.
It wasn't just a puppy face.
It was a weaponized puppy face.
It was a weaponized puppy face—guilt-tripping, resistance-melting, fine-tuned to melt hostility like butter.
Oswin scowled.
He still couldn't bring himself to be annoyed.
Oswin finally sighed.
"Yes, they hurt—but not much. It's manageable.
Yes, I can control them.
No, they don't feel weird. It actually feels… strangely natural."
He rubbed the side of his temple, glancing sideways.
"Anyway—don't you get affected by spirit influence? You've been using telepathy non-stop."
"I don't know," Arthur said, voice echoing lightly in Oswin's mind. "The Spirit Influence of the Spirit of Mind is weird. It's supposed to intensify habits and mental urges—like, if a Bard under its influence loves reading, their brain will nag them constantly to read, the intensity of urge will depend on the amount of influence inflicted."
Then, without missing a beat, he launched into a ramble—breaking down the pros and cons of being tethered to the Spirit of Mind, and of course, he couldn't resist gossip-dumping about a few bards he'd met—like one who wouldn't stop singing to the Spirit of Mind itself, even during meals.
"That makes sense now," Oswin muttered to himself, tuning out Arthur's mental babble.
"Arthur must really love to talk, and gossip. But since he can't use his mouth here, he dumps it all through telepathy. The Spirit Influence probably pushes him to talk even more.
So he talks more… which deepens the influence… which makes him talk even more.
A perpetual cycle."
Oswin sighed internally. "Now I kinda feel bad for him."
"Wait… this could actually be harmful for him.
If the Spirit Influence keeps amplifying his urge to talk, and he keeps using telepathy to feed that urge, it's a feedback loop.
That's not just annoying—it's dangerous."
Oswin's expression tightened. "I need to tell Ignis. Or someone. Before it gets worse."
"Arthur," Oswin said aloud, his voice low. "I think we might have a problem."
Arthur tilted his head, curious.
"Do you… have any hobbies?" Oswin asked. "Like, anything you enjoy doing besides chatting?"
There was a pause.
"I'm not saying I'm annoyed," Oswin added quickly. "It's not that. I've just been thinking—your constant talking might be a side effect of Spirit Influence. The more you use telepathy, the more it urges you to talk, which makes you use it even more. It's like it's feeding on itself."
Arthur's endless stream of mental chatter halted.
Silence.
It was the first time Oswin had felt it since the conference ended.
Arthur stared at him, still and unreadable. His usually animated eyes didn't blink. Then, slowly, his expression shifted.
Grim.
Worried.
And then—he cried.
No wails. Just tears and silent sobs. His chest trembled with the effort of suppressed emotion. His mouth opened once, twice—trying to speak, maybe instinctively—but no sound came out. Only air, not long had passed since his voice had been sealed.
Tears slid down his face, dripping onto the rough cloth of his tunic.
Oswin said nothing.
There was nothing to say.
But Oswin couldn't just sit there and watch Arthur cry.
He waited, unsure what to say, but took the initiative and spoke softly, "Hey… don't cry, Arthur. We'll figure something out. We'll find a way."
That was all it took.
Arthur's thoughts hit Oswin like a psychic tidal wave—the fragile silence shattering into a chaotic storm of emotion.
A fresh mental barrage flooded in—not just Arthur's emotions or worries about the Spirit Influence, but everything.
His thoughts spilled out in chaotic streams. Details. Theories. His entire understanding of Spirit Influence—how it worked, how it affected people, especially performers. The different effects of different spirits.
It was like opening a dam.
Oswin staggered slightly under the weight of it. Arthur wasn't just talking. He was unloading.
All at once.
Oswin had to do something. He couldn't take another tidal wave of thoughts crashing into his skull.
He paused, thinking for a moment. Then said, "Arthur, let's try this."
Arthur quieted instantly, mind hanging on the words.
"Talk to me," Oswin continued, "but only one word at a time. And delay the next word… as much as you can. I don't know much about spirits, but this might help… Probably."
It wasn't much. But it was better than nothing.
Arthur stopped sobbing. His tears didn't dry, but the flow slowed.
He was still clearly worried—but trying.
A single word echoed in Oswin's mind: "That."
Then, a few seconds later: "Could."
More time passed.
"Work."
"Alright, now tell me—are there any other things you like doing?" Oswin asked. "Stuff you feel the urge to do, but not as much as chatting?"
"I... like... solving... puzzles," Arthur said, each word dropping into Oswin's mind after a pause. "Or... answering... riddles. But... it's not... as satisfying... as connecting... with…someone…new"