Step to paradise

Flauros sat on the wooden chair, his cloak thrown haphazardly over the copper basin, his muddy shoes thrown aside like a corpse.

His eyes stared blankly down at his hands, white and clean as if he had never killed anyone.

He lifted himself, stepped into the warm tub filled with water, without a sound.

No soap, no perfume.

Just water, and the silence that weighed like a rock.

Water touched skin, skin touched water.

No reaction.

Only the cold seeping from within, the cold of someone who had grown accustomed to blood, but still could not forget the warm scent of an old promise.

Flauros leaned his head back against the edge of the tub.

His eyes were half-closed.

But his mind was not asleep.

It was talking, hissing a thousand questions.

"What is a letter, after all?"

"Is it knowledge? Is it the power to rewrite the world? Or is it just an illusion that we use to deceive ourselves?"

"I learn a lot, understand a lot, even know how to kill people with words."

"But in the end… do we use knowledge to live, or to die slowly?"

A bubble of water burst in the heat.

Just like a part of him, bursting without anyone seeing it.

If Kaiden hadn't opened that book that day…

If he had continued to live, continued to write short stories, continued to struggle… would it have been better?

Flauros didn't answer.

There was only a faint, lopsided smile, as if he couldn't believe he was thinking that.

And then the final question arose as the greatest torment.

"Is knowledge power, or a sweet poison? Do we drink it to become wiser, or to die little by little?"

The water in the tub was still warm.

But Flauros's heart had long since gone cold.

His artifact was a frosted mirror, a mirror that did not reflect his face, but the inside of his skull.

Every time he cast a spell, the book lit up.

Every time he wrote a forbidden symbol, the page hissed as if it had been cut open.

Knowledge flowed like honey… but left a cold metallic taste on his tongue.

Each Flauros' artifact sat absentmindedly on a wooden chair, his cloak haphazardly draped over a bronze basin, his muddy shoes cast aside like a corpse.

His eyes stared lifelessly down at his hands, white and clean as if he had never killed anyone.

He lifted himself and stepped into the warm, filled tub without a sound.

No soap, no perfume.

Just water, and the silence that weighed like a rock.

Water touched skin, skin touched water.

No reaction.

Only the cold seeping from within flowed back out, the cold of someone who had gotten used to blood, but still could not forget the warm scent of an old promise.

Flauros leaned his head back against the edge of the tub.

His eyes were half-closed.

But his mind was not asleep.

It was talking, hissing with thousands of questions.

"What are words, after all?"

"Is it knowledge? The power to rewrite the world? Or is it just an illusion that we use to deceive ourselves?"

"I learn a lot, understand a lot, even know how to kill people with words."

"But in the end… do we use knowledge to live, or to die slowly?"

A bubble of water burst in the heat.

Just like a part of him, bursting without anyone seeing it.

"If Kaiden had not opened that book that day…"

"If he had continued to live, continued to write short stories, continued to struggle… would it have been better?"

Flauros did not answer.

There was only a faint, lopsided smile, as if he did not dare believe that he was thinking it.

And then the final question arose as the greatest torment:

"Is knowledge power, or is it a sweet poison? Do we drink it to become wiser, or to die little by little?"

The water in the tub was still warm.

But Flauros's heart had long since turned cold.

His artifact was a frosted mirror, a mirror that did not reflect his face, but the inside of his skull.

Every time he cast a spell, the book lit up.

Every time he wrote a forbidden character, the page hissed as if it had been cut.

Knowledge flowed like honey… but left a cold metallic taste on the tip of his tongue.

Knowledge was a double-edged sword wrapped in poetic language.

He did not deny it.

He could not deny it.

Because the price for this unlimited power is not just outside the body, it is in the mind.

"Are you my creation… or am I your creation?"

No one answered.

Only the sound of water dripping from the faucet sounded like a whisper.

Leaving the warm bathroom, he lay down on the soft bed. As a habit, even though he was no longer a child, he still rolled the blanket around himself.

Trying to relax his mind, he gradually fell asleep…

The noon light penetrated through the thick curtains, falling gently on the stone bed with a thin mattress.

The room was still silent, outside the world was still spinning, magic was still whistling in the air like a dense breath, but here…

…Flauros was still sleeping.

A rare long sleep, without dreams, without knocking on the door, without being woken up by anyone to go kill, without anyone calling his name to prepare for battle.

The blanket slipped off one shoulder. The long, reddish-brown tail twitched slightly and straightened as an involuntary reflex. His ears also shook slightly.

The only sign that he was still alive.

The cat-men were a race that could recover quickly with just a few short naps.

But Flauros's body had recently stopped functioning like a normal cat-man.

He was overloaded.

Both physically and mentally, so a rest was essential for him to recover.

It was almost noon when Flauros stirred.

He opened his eyes. His cat pupils reflected the light. Not alert. Not panicked.

He yawned. He reached up to cover his forehead, rubbing his eyes.

Flauros shook himself out of bed.

His reddish-brown hair fell loosely over his sleepy eyes, his tail waved slightly as if touching something vague, and then stopped.

He stretched again, his joints creaking like gears that hadn't been oiled for a long time.

His body was better, but not fully recovered.

He walked to the corner of the room, where the cloak rack stood silently like a blind sentinel.

The black cloak with silver trim had faded a bit from being soaked in demon blood and magical ash many times. Flauros carefully put it on. The movements were practiced. No need to look.

Then he picked up the striped scarf that was only black and gray.

This scarf was not an artifact, nor was it a magical item.

It was just a warm piece of cloth, the only thing he had kept on him both in the old world and when he came to this one. It was always around his neck.

A memorable keepsake.

Flauros put it around his neck, adjusted it a bit to fit, then stood still looking at his dim reflection in the old piece of metal that served as a mirror.

After putting on his robe and wrapping his scarf carefully, Flauros reached out to touch the space ring on his middle finger.

A series of items disappeared in the blink of an eye.

A magic circle pen, a mana potion, a few bottles of anti-curse potions, and even a small notebook used to record magical discoveries. All of them were gone.

Compact. Mobile.

Ready for battle at any time.

But not today.

Flauros left the alley, walking along the winding stone-paved alleys, his steps soft in his shoes reinforced with a sound-absorbing spell.

The sun had risen, but the clouds were still thick, the light filtering down was silver, just the cool color that Flauros found pleasing.

Street corner.

There was a small wooden stall selling pastries.

No name, no sign, only the smell of butter and jam. The scent attracted a few passersby and even the birds and stray cats on the street.

He stopped.

The vendor was an old woman who didn't ask much, just looked at Flauros as if he were looking at a child in need of sugar.

"Try this. Freshly baked."

"Apple flavor. Not too sweet."

Flauros nodded, handing over a few Sil coins.

No bargaining. No further words.

Holding the cake in his hand, he took a bite.

Crispy.

The apples were sour, mixed with a light cinnamon scent. Warm, moderate. Unhurried.

A taste... very much like a morning in the old world.

"Hmm... It's good."

The words came out as small as the wind, only he could hear.

Flauros walked up the mossy stone steps, his eyes scanning the mossy roof tiles, the windows hung with talismans.

The wind chimes rang out.

The apple pie was cold. The taste of butter melted on his tongue, leaving only the aftertaste of something else, rotten history.

Flauros walked slowly along the ancient stone path leading out of the center, towards the memorial site that had been a human outpost during the Three Clans War. Humans, Dragons, and Demons.

The locals called this area by the name 'Black Ash Hill.'

But its old name, engraved on ancient stone tablets that no one could read, was 'The Grave of the Dragon Clan.'

He stopped in front of a small square.

There was a large stone pillar, on top of which was a carving of a wingless dragon, pierced through the heart by dozens of sharp spears.

Beneath it were the faded words 'For the Peace of Humanity.'

Flauros did not frown. He did not show any expression. He just stood there. The wind blew through his cloak, his scarf fluttering slightly.

He recalled a sentence that had been recorded in the travel diary of a wandering wizard, one of the books he had read to learn about this vast world when he first arrived.

'The three races had no deep-seated grudges and had nothing in common. That was why the war broke out.'

'The great war lasted for nearly a decade, and countless lives from countless species fell. Among the forces that participated in the war. The cat-men and the mermaids were the two races that participated as allies and suffered the most damage.'

Recalling those lines, Flauros suddenly frowned. He felt that these words... matched very well with the carved pattern he had seen in the cave.

'Could it be...that those images are depicting history?'

'But if that's the case, then what are the images of that gate and the images that came after? Could it be that there was someone who first passed through it at the beginning of time?'

The more Flauros thought about it, the more suspicious he felt. After all...what connection did the history of this world have with those images?

Prophecy or recording the past?