Chương 66: A Crown of Thorns

The front door swung open. William walked in, his boots dragging tracks of thick mud and squished bits of wet grass across the floorboards. He looked like he'd thoroughly enjoyed a chaotic afternoon with the town kids; his hair disheveled and his cheeks flushed a bright pink, while the knees of his trousers were covered with green grass stains. He took a few steps into the room, grinning until he caught sight of the two of them sitting together, and froze. A sudden flash of alarm washed across his features.

"What?" he asked, immediately on guard. Ophila tilted her head innocently.

"Nothing." William's eyes narrowed.

"Why are you both just sitting there?"

"We were just talking," Lio said flatly.

"About what?"

"Things." William wagged his head fervently.

"No, no. You two don't just have a random talk out of nowhere without—" Lio has something to tell you," Ophila announced cheerfully, rising from her chair and snatching her coat. William's head snapped toward Lio, his expression instantly morphing into one of pure dread.

"What is it this time?" he demanded.

"Are we being expelled from the settlement? Did you steal something? Is there another killer?"

"No," Lio said.

"Did you knock someone unconscious again?"

"No."

"Did you burn something down?" Lio shrugged.

"I've already done that." William groaned, dragging his hands over his face.

"Then what is it?!"

"Senna is joining the party," Lio said casually. William lowered his hands, his brows furrowing in brief confusion. He blinked.

"That girl who came over for dinner a few days ago? Her?" Lio nodded.

"Yes."

"Oh." William still looked unsure.

"Is that really it?"

"That's it," Lio confirmed.

"That's—" William laughed, rubbing the back of his neck as the tension leaked out of his features.

"That's completely fine. That's actually pretty good news." He nodded, warming up to the idea.

"Yeah, she seems sensible. And really nice." He gave Lio a scolding glare.

"Unlike some people." Lio didn't reply, unbothered by the jab. William nodded again.

"Yeah, alright. She's a good addition." He then paused, a frown curving his lips as a new thought suddenly struck him.

"Is she strong though?" he asked.

"Like, actually strong? Because we keep running into things that want to kill us and I'd rather not add someone we have to babysit on top of—" Ophila chuckled from across the room, where she was sliding into her coat.

"She is," she called out.

"You won't need to worry about it."

"Really?" William turned towards her, still seeming skeptical.

"You should be more worried about keeping up with her than the other way around," she said cheerfully. Flipping her long braid back over her shoulder, she picked up her sewing kit from the armrest and tucked it under her arm. William's frown deepened.

"I…see." Ophila crossed the lobby toward the door.

"I'm going to see Senna," she announced, pushing the heavy door open.

"Don't do anything stupid." She gave William a look, shot it towards Lio, then stepped out, the door swinging shut behind her. William turned toward Lio, his face twisted with confusion and wounded pride.

"Why did she look at me first?" he complained, throwing his hands up.

"I barely do anything! If anyone's going to cause trouble around here, it's you." Lio smirked.

"Are you sure about that?" William groaned, dropping into a vacant chair.

"Seriously," he muttered resentfully.

"I'm the most mature, normal person in this entire party and somehow I'm the one getting the warning glare." Lio looked him up and down, nodding at the green streaks adorning his trousers.

"Those grass stains aren't supporting your claim." William rolled his eyes.

"That's just from playing some ball games—""You're basically an adult," Lio pointed out.

"And you look about as messy as a toddler. You're not the picture of maturity you think you are."

"Playing games has no age limit, Lio!" William huffed, his face flushing in embarrassment.

"Sure, sure." Lio settled back into his chair, the faintest ghost of a smirk curling the corner of his mouth. The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. ◈◈◈◈ The once bright early afternoon spore-light had deepened into its evening gold by the time Lio stepped out of the lodge, pulling his coat around him. Quickly, he descended the steps and set off towards the destroyed Amberpulp fields. He ran through his mental inventory as he went.

Walker had been sent to the surface and bound to his service. Scillo had been contracted and was (hopefully) feeding information to Walker from inside the organization. Lupin had been dealt with and was waiting at Floor 4 with whatever Rose's Bloom intelligence he carried. The Prosperous Mantle was tucked safely in his pack. Senna had been recruited. The mural, Wormwood Moss, and the Floor 15 Checkpoint now had proper context, finally drawn out of Ophila.

All things considered, his days on Floor 3 had been rather productive. The scorched edge of the fields came into view, the blackened soil still expelling an acrid stench into the cool air. Lio looked out over the ruins. Almost everything he had needed to accomplish in Trestfall was done. Keyword: almost. He dropped into the crater that led into the sewers. The familiar smell hit him immediately, a rotten cocktail of human waste flooding his nostrils.

He quickly straightened up, following the route he'd taken twice before, passing through the narrow passages after passages until he reached the valve room. The lamp he'd left burning on the ground was somehow still going, its oil nearly spent. And in its dying light, Lamb was exactly where Lio had left him. He was still tied to the central pipe, his wrists behind his back, small frame hunched forward. His eyes were open, watching Lio with bloodshot pupils, which meant he hadn't slept.

The mangled arm was worse than before. It had swelled significantly, turned a yellowish red, and it was covered with the stench of rot and pus. It was clearly infected. Which was exactly what Lio needed. Lio reached into his pack and produced the medical supplies he'd brought down—antiseptic, a piece of clean cloth, and a small glass vial of the fungal compound that Ophila had bought from the apothecary. He set them on the stone floor between them. Lamb glanced down at the supplies without much expression.

"I'll fix the arm," Lio said, meeting Lamb's gaze.

"In exchange for an answer. Just one answer. Why were you interested in the girl?" Lamb said nothing. Lio waited a full minute, then picked the supplies back up and returned them to his pack. A pity. He'd thought that that would work. He sighed.

"Alright. Different question then." He studied Lamb's face carefully.

"The organization that's chasing her. Do you know them?" Silence.

"Do you know what information she has?" Nothing.

"When did you become interested in her?" Lamb looked away from Lio's gaze, staring at the far wall, his expression unchanged. Lio tried three more angles of questions, only to be met by the same silence each time. Until—"What did you eat today?" Lio paused. What? He glanced at Lamb, who was staring at the far wall, his expression giving nothing away. Lio studied him for a moment.

"Bread," he said carefully.

"And some salted meat." Lamb nodded, offering nothing more. Another long silence followed. Then, he spoke again, asking another mundane question: "Did you try the soup here?" Lio's eyes narrowed, the cold prickle of his internal alarms going off hitting him.

"Some of it."

"Which kind?"

"The Ironpulp." Lio spoke slowly, his voice laced with caution. Lamb nodded again, which was followed by another silence. Then it was broken once more.

"Is it cold outside?" Lio stared at him.

"No."

"Mhm." Lamb shifted his position against the pipe, wincing as the movement jostled his infected arm.

"Does the settlement still smell like smoke?"

"Some of it," Lio answered.

"That's good to know." Lio held his tongue and watched him. He had interrogated hundreds of souls across countless loops, having faced zealots, madmen, and cold-blooded killers. Yet none had ever derailed an interrogation with such aggressively mundane inquiries. What was Lamb's gambit? Was this some desperate play to prolong the inevitable? Or something else? The unyielding silence returned. Then Lamb spoke again, his voice entirely devoid of preamble or inflection.

"Do you believe in God?" Lio's head snapped up, locking eyes with him. Lamb had finally turned his face away from the wall. He was staring directly at Lio now, his bloodshot eyes suddenly lucid and clear.

"What?" Lio asked.

"God," Lamb repeated, his voice placid.

"Do you believe in it?"

"Why are you asking me that?" Lamb ignored the question. He looked down at the stone ground, and gave a dry scoff.

"I used to think it was for the weak," he said quietly.

"Religion. Prayer. All of that bullshit." His voice sounded tired and worn.

"I believed people invented a deity because they lacked the spine to rely on their own two hands. Because the raw truth of our isolation in this world was too grotesque for their fragile minds and egos." He chortled softly.

"So they constructed something of fake life, gave it a name, and prostrated themselves before it. They crawled on their knees and begged it to listen to their petty, worldly miseries." He scowled, his fists clenching.

"I despised it. I thought it was the ultimate cowardice. They were dressing up like little dolls and calling it some sort of fucking faith."

"Lamb," Lio interrupted, his tone turning frigid.

"What are you playing at?" Lamb didn't answer, like he hadn't heard Lio, continuing on his rant.

"But then, the perspective shifts," Lamb's eyes drifted back up to lock onto Lio's.

"What if the weakness isn't the point at all? What if the true meaning of faith is that you are kneeling in front of an entity that you know, with absolute certainty, will never answer you?" Lio didn't dare move.

"The thing is, you'd still kneel," Lamb explained.

"That's what I realized. Even knowing that, you'd still kneel." He spat out the last sentence.

"Like a dog!"

"Lamb," Lio demanded, his voice hard and cold.

"Did someone tell you to say this?" Lamb's bloodshot eyes bored into his." He told me to tell you this," Lamb said. Then, a wide, wobbly grin tore across Lamb's face. The raw, wild grin of a maniac.

"God has no mouth either." Instantly, a white-hot spike of agony detonated behind Lio's eyes. It felt like nails dragging across his mind, shredding his very memories. His thoughts began to smear and blur, like ink in water, and though he fought with every ounce of willpower to grasp onto the revelation, the blinding torment surged into a cruel, deafening crescendo— Lamb opened his mouth. Resting on the flat of his pinkish tongue was a tiny, pristine purple sphere, no larger than an apple seed.

He extended his tongue slightly, presenting the token like an offering. Lio's gaze dropped to it. Etched onto the microscopic surface of the pill, etched with a precision that defied human craftsmanship, was a minute, unmistakable symbol. A crown of thorns. Lio's hand shot forward— Lamb bit down. Crack.