Monachopsis(IV)

It had fled the Capital, concealed within a drum of tomatoes loaded onto a merchant's carriage. The rickety vehicle trundled down the uneven roads, its wheels creaking and groaning under the weight of its cargo. Hidden amidst the produce, it waited, silent and still, its fragmented mind churning over the events that had unfolded.

Through the haze of retreat, it began piecing together a profile of Aldric.

He was powerful, yes—dangerously so. But he was also deeply flawed.

Aldric's arrogance was evident in every word he spoke, every movement he made. He carried himself as though the world was beneath him, as though his strength alone placed him above the chaos that plagued lesser beings. Self-absorbed, smug, and certain of his superiority.

Yet, it had seen something else in him—a subtle contradiction. Despite his disdainful demeanor, Aldric cared enough to spare people from the madness and death of the curse. He was competent, undoubtedly, but he wore his strength like armor, acting as if he were above the struggles of others.

A competent hunter who tries to act mature and higher than what he deserves.

The girl's lips curled into a smile, an expression it mimicked as it processed these thoughts. The edges of the smile felt strange, foreign.

Am I feeling emotions?

The question lingered in its mind, but the answer was unimportant. Whether or not it felt, the smile was genuine in its intent.

If Aldric could not be defeated physically, then it would destroy him mentally.

It would unearth his vulnerabilities, pick apart the threads of his identity, and unravel the foundation of his arrogance. It would wait, as long as necessary, for the moment he let his guard down. And when that moment came, it would strike with precision.

In the dark, cramped drum, it grinned wider, the girl's body trembling faintly with the force of its intent.

This was not retreat.

This was the beginning of Aldric's undoing.

ALDRIC PARKER

'From a play degrading knights to fighting something likely higher than an unauthorized-grade beast… and it escaped. What a day...' Aldric thought as he lingered in the alley.

The space was unnervingly pristine. The severed tentacles, their blood, every trace of the battle—gone. The absence of evidence unsettled him, though he didn't show it.

A distant squawking drew his attention. A crow flew down, landing beside him with an air of irritation.

"Did you use your Sanctuary?" the crow croaked, snapping its beak in curiosity.

"No. I was attacked," Aldric replied, his tone calm but clipped. His gaze scanned the alley once more. "By something that can suppress its instincts while still existing as an aspect of a concept."

The crow's head jerked sharply. "Wait—" It snapped its beak again. "—you're saying you were attacked by a beast?"

"No, I'm telling you," Aldric shot back, his voice laced with mockery.

The crow hopped closer, as if tempted to peck at his legs, but restrained itself.

"Yes, a beast," Aldric clarified. "A highly intelligent one at that. Its ability to hold a proper conversation, to think critically without its instincts overriding its actions... it's dangerous. Strong enough, I'd wager, to rival Belga."

Aldric was a coward and a liar.

These traits, reviled by most, were what had kept him alive when his brethren had perished. He wasn't the smartest man, but he was a reader of people. He knew how to bait a fish, larger or smaller, for a matter, it didn't matter.

The blonde girl had been laughably easy to play. He'd nearly chuckled aloud at the simplicity of it. The beast, for all its intelligence, had the perspective of a teenager. It failed to grasp the deeper narrative of the play it had referenced.

The swordswoman was never meant to embody integrity. She was loyal, yes—but loyalty to a dead shepherd leaves the sheep without direction. Her aptitude for both good and evil drove her to extremes. She chose good with blinding fervor, oblivious to the cruelty her actions wrought. The younger girl, meanwhile, represented her younger self: rigid, untested, with loyalty and integrity yet to be shaped by the cruel world.

He had lied about his interpretation of the story, playing into the beast's lack of depth. It couldn't grasp the underlying layers of the narrative, and Aldric had led it along like a master flutist leading a tune.

"I'm going to continue searching for the anchor of the Sanctuary," Aldric told the crow as he started walking.

The crow took flight and landed on his right shoulder, tilting its head to look at him. "I need you to make sure Ad is safe."

"She's the strongest in this world, if we're talking proper battles," the crow squawked.

Aldric turned his head slightly, his gaze sharp as he glanced at the bird perched on his shoulder.

"Yes, and she's very swordswoman-like," the crow added, making a horn-like groan—a sound Aldric had come to associate with the bird's sarcasm.

Aldric sighed. The swordswoman in the play was a mockery, a misrepresentation of a knight's true virtues. The play showcased none of a knight's defining traits—neither loyalty nor aptitude. Integrity, the cornerstone of a knight's character, was obliterated in favor of hollow dramatics.

Julian had twisted the narrative, playing a sick game with history. Aldric, however, needed Julian alive—for now. Revenge, like any well-forged weapon, required patience to temper.

Adeline, in contrast, embodied the essence of a knight. Her powers might stand in stark opposition to such ideals, but her character mirrored the truest aspects of knighthood. And that, Aldric feared, made her vulnerable.

"I'll inform you through a loud screeching, like a child crying for teat to drink from, if something happens," the crow said, breaking Aldric's reverie. "Do stay near the fountain statue, my mighty companion."

The bird took off, flapping into the night. Aldric watched it go, his expression unreadable as he continued down the path.

The hunt wasn't over—not yet.

________________________

After more than three thousand years of existence in this realm, Aldric had grown accustomed to the contradictions that defined his world. For every explanation of why he was here, there were countless forbidden words and untouchable truths.

Walking along the cobblestone paths of the Capital, he found himself back at the fountain where the evening's play had unfolded. The night air was biting, though it made no difference to him. His body, like Adeline's, existed in stasis. Unlike the mortals shuffling by, drunk and complaining about their lives, he and Adeline were promised tomorrow.

He stopped to admire the statue—a woman kneeling with her sword, surrounded by offerings of gold thrown into the fountain's pool.

"Aren't you one lucky fella?" Aldric muttered, his voice tinged with sarcasm. "You get to be showered in gold just for kneeling with a blade. Meanwhile, look at us—I saved these people's lineages, kept their ancestors from being devoured by magical beasts. And they weren't even just magical beasts back then," he chuckled darkly. "No, they evolved into worse monsters. Aspects of concepts, with their sentience stripped away. Tragic, really. But hey, at least I don't have to worry about them stealing my abilities anymore."

He sat down on the cold cobblestones in front of the statue, his breath steady despite the chill. "Adeline fired up the forger to help you all grow, evolve, and invent. She got so attached to you lot, she just settled here." He chuckled softly. "Didn't even ask for a fraction of the fame she deserved. She should be revered as a god in your lives, like mine. Not this cheap, fake 'Mother' you all worship."

Aldric's expression darkened as his thoughts wandered further. "Even though your Conjurers destroyed the previous world, you still persist here. A world shaped for you and probably by you. I wish I could kill every last one of you. Only if, Ad wasn't here… only if."

His gaze returned to the statue. Something gnawed at him. This world, tailored for Conjurers, had devolved even the beasts to suit their needs. But why, then, was there a statue of a woman with a sword in the very heart of their Capital, the Oracle?

His musings were interrupted by a voice, deep and gruff.

"Are you alone here, sir?"

Aldric glanced up to see a man taller than himself with brownish-blonde hair and sunken eyes. His attire was simple—a thin coat and leather leggings that did little to shield him from the cold. Beneath them, the fine contours of his muscles were visible. A sword hung at his left hip, tucked into a scabbard attached to his utility belt.

"No," Aldric replied curtly, not inviting further conversation.

The man sat anyway. "I hope you're rethinking it," he said, his tone full of forced concern. "You can always speak to me about it."

Aldric's brows furrowed. "Rethinking what? In fact, I don't even know you. Why are you sitting here with me?"

The man emanated an unusual warmth, but Aldric's patience wore thin.

"I do not know what harsh situation you're going through," the man continued, "but you are going to make it, I assure you." He nodded.

'This bitch,' Aldric thought irritably. He wasn't in the mood for this. "I'm not some scared man who's going to jump off a building just because life gets slightly harsher."

His tone sharpened. "Why are you here?"

"Of course, to help a weary fellow," the man said with mock sincerity. "It is my duty—"

"You're homeless," Aldric interrupted bluntly. "And you're taking advantage of suicidal people."

The man's face contorted, scrambling to defend himself. "How—what do you mean?"

Aldric didn't bother hiding his disdain. He turned back to the statue but decided to make a point, just to embarrass the man. He raised his thumb. "First, you're wearing clothes that even a beggar wouldn't wear this time of year."

Raising his index finger, he continued. "Second, you asked if I was alone. Lonely people are easier to exploit because they're neglected."

Finally, he raised his middle finger, closing the others into a fist. "And third—you're hungry too. You butter people up with honeyed words, and they give you money out of misplaced gratitude for your 'love and care.'"

Aldric turned his hand, holding his middle finger out toward the man, a smirk playing on his lips.