As soon as the gray-haired man finished fighting, he raised his eyes toward him—that silent figure who had uttered only one word, a word with no place in memory.
He spoke in a voice devoid of emotion, something closer to an accusation:
— You... I saw you when you appeared out of nowhere amidst the crowd. I don't know where you came from or what kind of teleportation you use. But at your age... that's genius. You and your companion… you do not belong to this continent... Everything is clear, starting with your clothes... and that look you're trying to hide and failing. You are of an ancient lineage—something in your blood that cannot be bought.
At that moment, Samer's mind began to piece together explanations: "Teleportation? Use? Is that why the crowd froze then? Why their faces were astonished? And that man… why did he treat me with such reverence? My sudden appearance... my strange clothes... how didn't I notice? How did I miss all this? All the details were hanging right in front of me, and yet I ignored them… or maybe I didn't want to see them."
Then he smiled bitterly and threw out another remark:
— What's the use of that? Blood doesn't protect from falling, and genius means nothing if not put to use. You and your companion, with this teleportation ability... I'm sure you can't use it all the time... and there must be complex conditions you must follow... What if one of the eager attacks you? What will you do with such experience? Nothing but a certain death... You'll die unaware of what's happening around you.
Samer showed no signs of agreement or denial. His stance was as unclear as before—he didn't even know what was really happening. He wished he knew the answer—not to tell it to him, but to escape the maze that had formed inside his head.
The gray-haired man continued:
— I've been around many talented fools—geniuses who lacked sense. And I don't say this just because I've known them... but because I am a Sovereign-ranked trainer and an expert of the Path of Amusement. I'll give you some examples of such geniuses: Starlier, Symphony of the Sky, Icy Renarto, the Besieged Kaiji, Kawardo, and Valatini. All of them were once the talk of the people, their names passed down like legends... but all of that is now in the past—just the past, not the present. Look at them today—how do they live? Where do they live? That is, if they are still alive. I am now crowned as an expert—what are they? Some are dead, others are waiting to die.
Samer listened to the words but was unaffected—not because they were empty, but because he didn't understand what the man was saying or trying to imply.
He finally responded in a dry tone:
— Fine. What do you want? Be clear about your intentions.
— Isn't it obvious? I want both of you under my command. But I have a question… why didn't you save your friend and the girl? You were just standing there watching!
Samer paused for a moment. He didn't seem affected. He simply said:
— Not because I didn't want to... just because I had no power to do anything.
The man stared at him for a long time, as if weighing the truth in his palm, then smiled a faint smile—neither pitying nor mocking—just a kind of satisfaction.
Meanwhile, the other man was inspecting the bodies of the bandits with his hands, until he stopped at a certain point. The girl was behind him, trembling in silence, still stuck in a moment that hadn't ended.
Then he turned toward the gray-haired man, his eyes full of doubt about what had just happened, and asked:
— Did you kill them?
— And what did you expect? That I'd spare them? Mercy is hesitation, and hesitation is a crime punishable by death… I'm alive because I didn't hesitate.
The man murmured to himself: "He killed them with just a push… and what are these teleportation abilities? And a Sovereign-ranked trainer? What does all this even mean?"
The three exchanged stunned glances in silence. The shock wasn't just from his words but from the fact that he had killed them just by pushing them—killed without blood—as if the man didn't just kill them, but killed logic along with them. They hadn't yet processed the severity of the situation; their minds hadn't caught up with what their eyes had seen and what their ears had heard.
Samer broke the silence. His voice was tense but decisive:
— In any case... I will not go with you, and I don't want to.
The other man said, just as coldly:
— Me neither.
The silver-haired man paused for a moment, looked at them with a calmness that was unsettling, then said:
— Very well... I'll give you three days. During that time, the words I planted in your minds will ripen... If you decide to accept, come to this place—anytime during that period.
Samer walked away silently. It wasn't that he couldn't respond, but he saw no point in adding more to the nonsense. He wanted to say something, to object, to reject that cold selfishness—but what's the use? He simply shut his mouth, like someone closing something that no longer concerns him.
The man followed him, dragging his steps quietly, holding the little girl's hand—as if they had all walked out of a scene they couldn't explain and had no right to object to.
Samer felt a bit of joy when he saw them walking behind him. He didn't say anything, but he felt something like comfort—if only for a moment. He wanted to ask, but the man beat him to it in a calm voice:
— You appeared from nowhere? Are you from another world?
Samer smiled inwardly, as if he had finally found someone who understood him:
— Yes, I was transported to this world. And apparently... you too?
The other nodded without emotion:
— Yes, I'm Italian. My name is Carlesto.
— I don't think my appearance explains much. I'm Arab, and my name is Samer... How long have you been in this world? And how?
Carlesto replied while slowly tracing the wound on his cheek with his finger, as if making sure it was real:
— About an hour and a half... maybe more. I was on my way to work, stopped briefly at a sidewalk... then... I don't remember the moment exactly... I just fell on my face here.
— That's close to what happened to me an hour ago. There was no light or sound, just... a sudden change in everything. But I don't understand what connects us? Why us? And how? Coincidence? I don't think so.
— There are too many questions, and it's too early for answers... Like this language we suddenly started speaking.
— Maybe that strange man knows all the answers. I'll go tomorrow and speak to him.
Carlesto waved his hand in objection:
— No, don't... telling a stranger such information feels dangerous... and he even thinks we're from this world...
The thought vanished from Samer's mind as quickly as it came.
They discussed the matter, leaving the little girl to listen silently and motionless, posing no threat to them. They didn't think she would understand the meaning behind their conversation; she was just an innocent girl, present without presence, indifferent to what was going on around her.
Carlisto looked at the little girl who was holding his hand and said,— The priority now is to get this girl to a safe place. Will you come with me?
— Why not? I have nowhere else to go, and besides, I don't even know where I'll sleep tonight.
Anxiety gnawed quietly at his chest, a weight pressing on him. After nearly an hour in this world, certainty was creeping in like poison—that going back was impossible and everything he saw was undeniable truth. This upset his nerves, and all he could do now was feel annoyed thinking about how to secure the basics of living.
— That's your biggest worry?
— You've taught us stoicism well, Italian
He smiled but said nothing.
Carlisto spoke with the little girl and learned her name was Larissa. She pointed confidently toward the way to her home, even though doubts flickered in their eyes—they questioned her ability to remember the way. But there was no other option, and questions were pointless when the only available truth was the child walking ahead of them with an assurance beyond her years.
Suddenly, she stepped lightly in front of them and hesitantly raised her voice,— Stay at our house tonight!
The two nodded in agreement and chuckled softly. Samer, who had been silent for a while, only returned her gaze with quiet, unfocused eyes.
They paused briefly, then Carlisto asked,— How old are you?
— Seventeen.
— I'm twenty-four.
As they walked, the sunset crawled slowly; fewer pedestrians passed by, buildings grew more desolate than before, shadows stretched as if breathing, the air grew heavier. People's faces looked grim—neither angry nor sad—but everything about them hinted at suspicion and unease.
Something strange stopped them a few steps ahead: a body lay flat on the ground, unmoving and silent, just total stillness. Everyone around ignored its presence as if it didn't exist. There was not enough light to make out its form, just a dark mass blending with the shadows, as if the earth itself had birthed it.
The three stopped, no one spoke, but a certain unnamed anxiety crept among them—present like silence itself.
Samer, standing among them, felt an inexplicable familiarity. He didn't recognize the face; it was lying motionless on the ground, clothes dirty—this person, this place!
A faint scream echoed deep inside his skull—a familiar voice buried beneath the dust of forgetfulness. It wasn't only the voice but the place itself, the faces, and the eerie silence before collapse—all gathered suddenly. Memory rebelled and deliberately brought out a forgotten recollection: "A man lying on the ground, falling under the feet of passersby, nameless and nonexistent."
Carlisto approached the body lying on its stomach, surrounded by a dark circle of blood. He bent slowly, extended his hand with heavy hesitation, then uncovered the face. It wasn't entirely clear; the darkness left only vague outlines and features drained of life. No pulse, no movement, not even a tremor. The empty part of his body was bleeding dried blood, cruel stab wounds engraved within it. Death to him was the end—peace after years of pain. But for them, it was the beginning of a dilemma and questions without answers.
Larissa froze, and when she raised her eyes, it seemed certainty slowly slid onto her face… a deadly certainty, with no return. It spread among them like an incurable infection.
She whispered, broken and quiet,— My father!
Their minds, filled with the notion of order and civility, couldn't grasp how a street could swallow such a crime without a stir. A man killed, stabbed on the roadside… Yet, no one screamed, no one stopped, no one looked back. Then one looked at the other, and they said nothing, because the question was more powerful than words—a look that said:
"Have the people here lost their senses? Or have we yet to understand the laws?"
He looked like one staring at distant mountains—impossible to reach, only to be seen helplessly. He stayed silent, recalling the depths of the inner guilt he felt, searching and digging for its cause until things became clear. Just an hour ago, he saw him—the man was asking about his daughter, searching with terrified eyes in the crowd. And he stood there motionless, watching his death, trampled and screaming in pain, without reaching out to help, without moving or speaking—just watching.
At that moment, all he could do to face the truth was to clasp his waist with his hands, staring steadily at the ground, the very spot he first stepped on when he arrived… the same cracks, the same dark corner. Nothing had changed except him.