The sun climbed above the horizon once again on this new day. The first silver rays of dawn gradually painted a golden hue over the dew-drenched meadow. Tiny droplets clung to the tips of the grass, shimmering like scattered diamonds, yet Knight remained in the same position. He still couldn't decide on his next move, even though only one path remained that seemed remotely viable.
'In the end, another night without sleep...' Knight looked up at the sky and let out a long sigh. The morning breeze blew softly across the meadow, carrying a piercing chill that bit at his skin, which had remained still throughout the night. He moved his fingers slowly to chase away the numbness; his knuckles cracked faintly before sensation finally began to return.
He gazed at the silver mist still hanging motionless on the northern horizon. It hadn't changed at all, not thickening, not fading, and not swaying with the wind that swept the plains. It was as if it didn't know time.
As if it had been waiting all along.
Knight had spent the entire night staring at it like this, circling the same questions repeatedly without finding a satisfactory answer. He wasn't usually one to hesitate, but this was different. This wasn't just a decision about what to do; it was a decision about who he was.
Was he the young man currently undergoing the trial of the Golden Box, or was he the stranger sitting on a grassy knoll with people who were about to die a cruel death?
Could both be true at the same time?
This world was too realistic to be just a trial, yet not realistic enough to make him feel entirely "connected." Everything felt like a theatrical stage play he was meant to observe, yet it felt more visceral than any drama.
Everything swirled in his head after receiving too much information from both the old man at the ruins and the camp leader. Yet, the notifications from the Box gave him nothing. And then there was that voice from the Box that spoke to him before the trial began.
It was all tangled and messy, as if someone had pre-written it all. It made it impossible to think impossible to find a way to clear this trial.
"Sir Knight... Here is some food..."
A young woman's raspy voice came from behind him, soft and cautious, as if she wasn't sure if she should disturb him. In her hand, she held a bowl of soup with a few scraps of vegetables and meat. Faint steam drifted from the rim.
"...Thank you." Knight took the warm bowl. The heat from the bottom seeped into his freezing palms, helping call the sensation back into a body numbed by the cold wind.
He stole a glance at her. She looked to be around his age. Her hair was tied loosely at the nape of her neck, and the fine lines at the corners of her eyes suggested she hadn't slept soundly in a long time. Her clothes were clean but heavily patched. Her eyes mirrored his own exhaustion, yet she had still bothered to wake up and prepare breakfast amidst such scarcity.
He looked down into the clear broth, which reflected his own haggard face. The marks of sleeplessness were dark under his once-sharp eyes; his cheeks had hollowed slightly, and his lips were dry. He remembered that he never used to look like this. It wasn't just tiredness; it was the face of someone carrying something heavier than he had bargained for.
"...Is it alright to share such precious food with me?" Knight asked in a slightly guilty tone. He had enough rations of his own to survive, even without relying on them.
The woman shook her head slightly and sat down on the grass beside him uninvited, as if she had already made up her mind before leaving the camp. She straightened her skirt and rested her hands on her knees, looking out at the silver mist just as he was. It was as if they were two people accidentally sharing the same view.
"Food is meant to be shared," she said simply. There was no display of virtue or pity in her voice; it seemed like a belief rooted so deeply it had become part of her. "My mother taught me since I was little that if the person next to you is hungry and you pretend not to see... it's no different from hurting them with your own hands."
Knight didn't reply. He just looked back down into the bowl of soup.
A few vegetables, meat he could practically count, and broth so clear he could see the bottom. But it was warm. Someone had woken up early to boil this while their resources were nearly depleted while they didn't even know if they would be alive tomorrow.
And yet, someone still got up before dawn to cook for a stranger they didn't know.
He lifted the bowl and drank.
The soup wasn't delicious; it was bland, nearly devoid of seasoning. But the warmth traveled down his throat and spread through his stomach, which had been empty all night. It made him feel vividly present that he was actually sitting right here, not just a character in a trial waiting to cross the next stage.
It made him feel weighted, real, a person with a hunger that could be satisfied by a single bowl of bland soup.
"Is your mother in the camp too?" Knight asked involuntarily. He didn't know why he asked. Perhaps it was because she had mentioned her mother twice already, and each time she did, her tone shifted.
The woman went quiet for a moment.
The silence lasted long enough for Knight to realize he had touched on the wrong subject, but also long enough to know she was searching for the right truth, not a lie.
"She isn't here anymore," she replied flatly, like a sentence she had repeated so many times she had grown used to it. Used to it enough that it didn't hurt, or perhaps she had just practiced not showing the pain. "She was one of the six people who walked into that mist on the first night it appeared."
Knight stopped drinking.
"She's still in the camp now. She can walk, she can eat. But when I call her... she never turns to look at me." She continued in a voice so level it was chilling. "I don't know if that's still my mother, or if it's just... a shell walking around."
The wind blew, and the tips of the grass swayed.
Knight held the bowl in his hands, not drinking further, just listening in silence. He knew that sometimes, saying nothing was better than speaking. He had no words of comfort that would fix the situation, no promises he could guarantee right now. There was only the silence of acknowledging that this was truly heavy.
He looked at her face again. She wasn't much different in age from him, but her eyes were older than they looked. The dark circles proved she hadn't slept well in a long time either. Yet she still woke up to make soup. She still walked out to find the stranger sitting alone on the hill.
'What kind of program could allow a Box to create something like this...?'
The thought flashed through Knight's head before he could stop it. And as soon as it passed, he realized it didn't bring the usual sense of detachment.
Because if it was just a program, if it was just a character designed to do this, why did it feel so real? Why was the bland soup in his hand warm? Why did the person sitting next to him have bags under her eyes from lack of sleep?
Does a thing created to test someone really need to be this painful?
"Lina!"
A call rang out from the direction of the camp, sharp and urgent in the way only a young child can shout. It shattered the silence of the morning meadow completely. Small footsteps soon thudded rhythmically across the damp grass fast, uneven, and with no attempt at stealth.
A young boy ran out of the camp quickly. He couldn't have been older than six. His hair was a mess, as if he had just woken up and done nothing to it. His clothes were oversized, looking like they were cut from fabric twice his size, with the hem falling nearly to his knees. He ran straight for the woman, not noticing the stranger sitting beside her at all. His eyes were fixed only on Lina.
Until he nearly crashed right into Knight's knee.
The boy skidded to a halt, shifting his weight to his heels so sharply he almost fell backward. He looked up with two wide, round eyes filled with pure shock. His mouth hung open slightly, as if he'd forgotten to close it, before he slowly took a step back and quickly hid behind the woman. His small hands gripped her skirt so tightly his knuckles turned white.
"Lina..." the boy whispered, his voice still trembling slightly despite his confident run. "Who is that?"