Single for Eternity
Chapter 103: Food? What’s that

Chapter 103: Food? What’s that

But before we could process anything further—before a word left either of our mouths—the malformed man opened his eyes.

No light, no sound, just the quiet dread of his gaze locking onto us.

A gaze that seemed to pierce through the fabric of reality itself.

And in the very next breath—our vision blurred.

The tomb vanished.

...

A cold breeze stirred the grass around me as I groaned, rubbing my eyes and blinking away the strange heaviness.

My mind felt fogged, my senses slow to respond, as though I’d been submerged underwater and pulled back out too fast.

When my sight cleared, the ancient walls, the eerie glow of aether, and the scent of death were all gone.

In their place stretched an endless plain.

A sea of green, wild and vivid—rolling grasslands with wind brushing across the tall blades like invisible fingers.

Wildflowers bloomed here and there in clusters, swaying gently under the sunlight that poured from a pristine blue sky. Trees dotted the horizon sparsely, standing like watchful sentinels.

It was... peaceful.

"Finally up, princess," a familiar voice drawled behind me.

I turned my head.

Einar stood a few paces away, his hands stuffed casually in his pockets, his expression half amused, half tired.

He extended a hand, and I took it without hesitation. His grip was firm, warm.

Pulling me up, he raised an eyebrow. "You’re heavier than you look."

I shot him a flat look, brushing off dust and grass from my clothes. "And you’re lighter than your ego suggests."

He chuckled quietly but said nothing in return. His gaze shifted to the vast plain ahead.

There was nothing in sight—just wind, grass, flowers, and sky.

"Let’s start moving," he said at last, patting my back in an oddly familiar way that made me tense instinctively. "I’ve waited around long enough."

I narrowed my eyes, annoyed by the casual touch, but said nothing. There were more important things to worry about than his lack of boundaries.

We began to walk, our footsteps light but aimless.

Time passed, and the landscape never changed. Hours, maybe half a day—though it was difficult to measure without the sun moving.

Every direction we looked in was the same—green grass, blue sky, and nothing else. It was beautiful... hauntingly so.

Einar led the way with unshaken composure. He moved as if he’d done this before—navigating through illusions, walking through alien memories, unbothered by the dissonance between reality and dream. No fear, no doubt. Just quiet resolve.

I couldn’t say the same for myself.

This world... it felt familiar. Not mine. Not Einar’s. But someone’s. A place etched in nostalgia. In loss.

Then we found it—a massive tree, old and gnarled, towering above the plains. Its bark was cracked and scarred, yet its leaves were vibrant, rustling softly with the wind.

There was something almost sacred about it. An anchor in this realm of memory.

Without a word, we agreed to stop here. Rest was long overdue.

I lay down beneath its wide shade, eyes half-lidded as I let the silence soothe the pounding of my head.

The fatigue from before—the endless fighting, the bone-deep repetition—still lingered, but here, in this space, it began to ebb.

Einar remained standing for a while, watching the horizon with a blank stare. Then he brushed his clothes and glanced down at me.

"I’ll go find something to eat. Don’t wander off," he said, voice casual but tinged with an odd seriousness.

I nodded, still reclined beneath the tree. My limbs felt heavy, but in a pleasant way.

As he disappeared among the swaying grasses, my thoughts drifted.

This place—it wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be.

No, it was a memory. A fragmented echo from the murals etched along the tomb’s walls. The same village. The same tranquil peace before the tragedy.

Which meant we weren’t just here randomly. We were inside the memory.

A projection, a reenactment. A test? Or perhaps a story left untold.

The malformed man—was he truly Malthorn? Or a precursor to something else? Was the fur-cloaked figure the same being that the villagers betrayed? And more importantly... what became of the child?

There was something unsettling about the boy in the carvings. The way he dissolved. The way no face was shown.

Too many questions, no answers yet.

But all of that could wait.

For now, the only truth I held was this: I was tired. Deeply, soulfully tired.

And for once, the world around me allowed rest.

So I closed my eyes, letting the whisper of wind and rustle of leaves lull me into a light doze.

...

Einar walked through the grassland, his boots brushing against the tall, untamed blades that grew in abundance. Though the landscape was lush with greenery, it was barren in its offerings—flowers, trees, but no fruit, no sustenance.

It was maddening. He had expected some form of nourishment, but there was nothing. Only this endless expanse of untouched land.

His frustration mounted with each passing step, but he hid it well, his face an expression of casual indifference. Seren, back at the time, might have thought him carefree, but the reality was far different.

Einar’s guard was always up. It had to be. Beneath that nonchalant demeanor lay a man ever-vigilant, ever-ready for the unexpected.

He had learned long ago that the world, especially a world like this one, could flip on its head in an instant. The weight of the unknown constantly pressed against his thoughts.

As he continued forward, his sharp eyes caught a slight movement out of the corner of his vision. In an instant, his body was in motion. He blurred, his form a fleeting shadow, and ducked behind the trunk of a large tree.

There, crouched in the tall grass, was a child—a small, barely visible figure hidden by the swaying blades.

Einar’s lips curled into a thin smile, the tension in his muscles easing. Finally, people.

But rather than revealing himself, he remained hidden in the shadows, watching carefully. He wasn’t about to show his hand just yet.

His arms crossed behind his back, Einar leaned slightly against the tree, allowing the scene to unfold before him. There was no need to rush. His instincts told him that patience would yield more answers.

The child, oblivious to Einar’s presence, finished whatever it was he was doing, then suddenly called out. "Mom!!!"

The voice was high-pitched, innocent, but there was something almost unsettling about its desperation.

A moment passed before a soft, gentle voice responded from somewhere in the distance. "Yes?"

"Take me home!!" the child called again, the words more frantic now.

The woman’s response was a mere hum, sweet and melodic, like a lullaby carried on the wind. Within moments, a woman appeared from behind the child, moving with a quiet grace.

She was gentle, her features warm and motherly as she bent to scoop the child into her arms. The woman’s movements were effortless, serene, like she was part of the landscape itself.

Einar’s brow furrowed as he silently followed them. There was something about this scene that was eerily familiar, something out of place that tugged at his senses.

He observed their movements closely, noting the lack of urgency in their actions, the fluidity of their presence.

The pair walked together, vanishing into the distance. Einar’s steps followed, quiet and calculated, until they led him to the entrance of a village—one that appeared straight out of a dream.

The village was a picture of peaceful harmony: children running through the streets, laughing and calling out to one another; adults standing in the doorways of their homes, exchanging words, their faces painted with wide, sincere smiles.

Everything here was serene, untouched by the passage of time. The air felt thick with tranquility, the kind that made your bones feel heavy with calm.

But to Einar, this place was suffocating. It felt like a stage, a perfect facade where everything had its place, its purpose, and nothing—nothing at all—was left to chance.

He scanned the village, his gaze lingering on the familiar murals etched on the stone walls of the village. ’So that’s what it is,’ he thought to himself.

’This place... it’s the same as the murals in the corridors. The story... it’s here. But where does it lead?’

Einar stepped into the village, blending in with the backdrop, though his presence immediately caught the attention of those nearby. He felt the weight of their gazes, as if the entire village had turned to look at him.

They were all smiling, their eyes reflecting an unspoken, silent awareness of his arrival.

Suddenly, an old man, hunched and wrinkled with age, approached him. He walked with a slow, measured gait, his hands clasped together like an ancient priest preparing for a sermon.

He stopped before Einar and greeted him in a tone that was almost too warm, too welcoming. "Greetings, traveler," the old man said, his voice smooth and soft like the hum of the wind. "Are you here because you are lost?"

Einar tilted his head slightly, a quizzical expression crossing his face. There was something peculiar about the old man’s phrasing, the way he emphasized the word lost, as if it had a different meaning here—one that Einar couldn’t quite grasp.

Still, he didn’t show the confusion on his face. Instead, he leaned into the conversation, trying to keep his tone light, as if the question had been nothing more than a simple greeting.

"I am looking for something to eat," Einar said with feigned weariness. His voice was pitch-perfect—just enough vulnerability in it to sound genuine. "I couldn’t find anything out in the grassland. Does your village have something for this poor soul?"

The old man’s lips parted into a wide, toothless smile, the edges of his mouth creasing into folds that were too deep. "Food? What’s that?" he asked, chuckling as though it were the funniest question he had ever heard.

Einar’s smile faded in an instant, his eyes narrowing as he processed the response. His hand instinctively clutched into a fist, but he restrained himself, unwilling to make any sudden moves. ’Undead,’ he thought bitterly. ’They’re all undead.’

The village, the people—none of them were real. They were mere echoes of life, trapped in this repeating nightmare. The sudden realization hit Einar hard, the weight of it pulling at his chest.

But he kept his composure, his gaze unbroken as he studied the old man’s expression. There was no fear, no hesitation in the old man’s voice, only that same unrelenting cheerfulness.

The old man’s smile didn’t waver as he continued. "You must be new here, traveler. Here, we have no need for food. We live off the essence of the land itself. The earth sustains us."

Einar’s lips pressed together in a thin line. ’So that’s how it is.’ The words made perfect sense now—this village, these people—they were nothing more than remnants, cursed imprints of a time long past.

The earth itself was keeping them here, locked in place, like a broken memory.

"I see," Einar said, his voice distant, eyes still scanning the village.