Ch.131Golem (8)

The world went dark. With nothing left intact, everything was stained pitch black, making even my own palm invisible.

In that place, Llewellyn opened his eyes. He scanned his surroundings with a blank stare, and only after looking around did he realize he had no idea how he had ended up here.

So he tried to retrace his memories.

He had fought the Shapeshifters. If that could be called a fight.

He had beaten them up, and verbally thrashed the Empress, supposedly the ruler of the Shapeshifters.

And after that?

Probably returned to his lodgings… Yes, he had his blood sucked.

He lost consciousness after being bitten deeply and having his blood drained, and when he came to, it was now.

A landscape like eternal night had descended. Llewellyn slowly turned his head to scan his surroundings, realizing that where he stood now was no ordinary place.

Rather, it was closer to a concept. Something conceptual and deeply personal. Only after this insight did Llewellyn notice that these weren’t his own thoughts.

Though he might self-evaluate as a genius or whatnot, in truth, Llewellyn knew well that his intellectual abilities weren’t beyond ordinary.

He didn’t have a good memory, nor was his thinking exceptional enough to deduce answers from simple clues.

His intuition had only recently improved, but that was merely thanks to the Mourner’s special privilege—”possessed intuition.”

Essentially, Llewellyn was both oblivious and intellectually unremarkable, so he blinked with suspicion.

Then gradually his vision cleared and something began to appear. In the distance, a man approaching through the darkness.

His face wasn’t visible. The deeply pulled hood didn’t seem to be the reason.

He walked with a torch in one hand, but strangely, only the shadow cast on his face remained perfectly still. A sight that defied common sense, even for someone who wasn’t a scientist.

Llewellyn stared at the man. Though even calling him a man was mere conjecture.

Then came a voice.

A mysterious language whose meaning and intent were difficult to grasp, yet strangely, what it wanted to convey reached him.

The figure asked if he was truly satisfied with that.

It felt as if only the meaning reached his mind, though he could hear neither voice nor words.

‘This feels unpleasant.’

But regardless of his discomfort, he thought about it.

Satisfied with what?

As if his thoughts had somehow reached the hooded figure, it slightly extended the hand holding the torch.

As if offering it to him. Something too trivial to be given as a favor.

Isn’t it just a torch? Yet the entity acted as if the torch was something special.

As if it were the power Llewellyn desperately sought, and with it, he could achieve his goals.

But how could such a favorable deal exist?

Llewellyn was now glaring at the figure with sharply focused eyes.

The face remained invisible. With no audible voice, it was difficult to guess the age, and he couldn’t understand what the torch symbolized.

But Llewellyn felt like he knew who this was.

The source of the Mourner’s power.

Father.

Despite having his identity exposed, Father didn’t flinch. Instead, he thrust the torch forward as if asking if Llewellyn wouldn’t take it.

When Llewellyn naturally reached out and knocked the torch away.

The dark, mysterious figure looked at the fallen torch and then disappeared.

‘Fucking bastards, always causing trouble.’

This wasn’t the first time such a thing had happened.

To tell the truth, though he kept it to himself to avoid worrying his companions.

These incidents were quite frequent. Whenever Llewellyn lost consciousness for a long time or fell asleep, there were those who came to tempt him.

Some were his mother, and sometimes, like now, his father.

Occasionally, he felt as if something that was neither of them was staring at him intently.

Llewellyn found it unsettling. But it was just unsettling—he couldn’t consult others about it.

Not only would they worry, but he didn’t think anyone could provide a clear answer about this situation.

So he usually responded like this.

If they offered power, he kicked them away, telling them to get lost.

If they just stared without wanting anything, he charged at them to poke their eyes out.

If they subtly tempted him with something they wanted, he closed his ears and ran away.

He wondered if these actions had any effect since it was just a dream, but surprisingly, they did. It made sense, as it was a way of telling them to fuck off.

Anyway, after the dream visitors disappeared, Llewellyn was left alone. In this desolate, cold dream space, he had to wait until his body regained consciousness.

So naturally, Llewellyn lay down on the ground and stared blankly at the sky.

Though he wasn’t sure if it could be called a sky. Anyway.

Llewellyn looked up at the blackened sky and thought.

That he should have fed her regularly after all.

He never imagined Lorian would be so hungry that she’d bite him to the point of unconsciousness.

Even people are like that, aren’t they? When hungry, they get irritable, angry, and flare up over trivial matters.

Overseas, they called it “Hangry.” Anger stemming from hunger.

Viewed that way, Lorian’s actions were understandable.

Also, failing to feed a pet on time is usually the owner’s fault.

Should he give it every evening? Or should he ask Ortemilia to produce synthetic blood or something?

He was pondering this, sighing, and waiting for his body to wake up.

When something gradually began to rise in his upward gaze.

It was a memory.

“…Sister.”

In the memory that surfaced, his sister was there.

And it was a memory of his sister directly confronting an issue he had been avoiding deep down.

Llewellyn was looking up at his sister’s face from his comfortable lying position.

His sister wore a subtle expression. One that even Llewellyn wouldn’t have recalled if he hadn’t seen Lorian’s face right after drinking blood.

The fact that his sister could make such an expression, and that she had made it toward him, troubled him simultaneously.

‘When did it start?’

Llewellyn thought blankly as he lay there.

‘When did my sister start looking at me that way?’

Llewellyn had the delusion that he understood women’s hearts to some extent. Because of this, he knew well that there were cases where he was loved without having done anything in particular.

Usually, even in such cases, there’s a trigger.

He’s not talking about small acts of kindness. Llewellyn knew well that the common trigger for affection to bloom was observation.

Once, when a girl from his class confessed to him, he asked why she had come to like him and honestly heard all the reasons.

She said there was an initial trigger for observation, a moment when that person’s actions caught her eye.

But Llewellyn couldn’t recall any moment in his life that would have triggered his sister to see him that way.

Perhaps, because he was someone to care for, because he was her brother, she just watched over him and it happened that way.

Just as his sister was Llewellyn’s only family and sole protector in the world, perhaps she had something similar.

It was impossible to know. Llewellyn felt uncomfortable for no reason.

There were too many intense emotions to face, making him feel queasy.

It might have been anemia from having too much blood drained. He could gradually feel his body regaining consciousness.

And as his consciousness surfaced, the last thing Llewellyn saw was Lorian’s expression overlapping with his sister’s.

Her expression right after drinking blood.

Was it really just desire?

The answer came quickly. When Llewellyn regained consciousness, he felt a soft touch supporting the back of his head.

He squinted, trying to adjust to the bright light, when a hand slipped in, creating a shadow over his eyes.

A fair, pretty hand. Without calluses. As he was thinking that she must have had many calluses before her gender was fixed, a face as spotless as that hand suddenly entered his field of vision.

Ruby-red eyes that emitted a vivid light.

A beautiful and cute face delicately arranged around those eyes.

Deep concern and guilt permeating that face, along with skin so pure white it seemed pale, and hair even whiter than that.

Llewellyn regained consciousness with his head on Lorian’s lap.

“…From now on, should I give you blood more often?”

Those were the first words from his mouth upon regaining consciousness. He never thought he’d be drained to the point of losing consciousness.

Probably thinking she had taken almost all the blood from his body, Lorian smiled awkwardly.

“That would be nice for me… but I have to say, this wasn’t bad either… It was tastier than I expected.”

“I’m saying it’s hard on me, you crazy woman.”

“Well, yes, I suppose so. But Llewellyn, didn’t you say that when you’re hungry, anything becomes food?”

He thought he had said “hunger is the best sauce,” but she must have translated it differently or was remembering roughly.

Llewellyn lay on his side, using Lorian’s thin, soft legs as a pillow.

He liked the feel of the fabric against his cheek and the soft flesh characteristic of a young woman.

Lying like this, Llewellyn hesitated, but feeling he had to say it, he opened his mouth after a moment’s pause.

“Hey, you know.”

“Hmm?”

“Do you like me too?”

Lorian froze while stroking Llewellyn’s bangs, and in that frozen state, let out a dumb sound like “uh.”

When Llewellyn turned his head to meet her eyes, Lorian’s eyes reflected vivid surprise.

“…Uh, how did you know…?”

Not the kind of thing one would say after declaring herself a concubine.