Thales was prepared for the trial—
hungry for the prospects it offered.
He was met with thorough disappointment.
"Huh? What the hell do you mean?"
"The Moon does not guide your path here, but out there.
There is no trial for you.
He does not allow it, and they scripted no settings for it."
The doppelgänger homunculi were as cryptic as ever—
despite speaking in relatively normal tones.
"So what? I just do nothing then?"
"You wait until the true game begins.
If you are lucky, you will face other threats too.
It is a rite of passage, so to speak.
And I pray your soul persists beyond what is to come."
The creature said it forebodingly… then disappeared.
Thales stood in the empty room, confused.
When he left, he was greeted by Edmund.
"Young Master Thales, you are now permitted to enter the Sage of Memories' Historia."
I feel as if I can no longer rebel.
I've stepped on a solid, pre-laid path.
Following the yellow-brick road
—not out of desire—
but out of the accursed craving to know
that which does not belong to me,
but that which I seek to have regardless.
I'm no pure epistemophiliac.
I am beyond categories.
It's not nature—
It is specific.
It could only happen to me.
But...
I can no longer honestly say I.
I am a traitor.
To whom?
I don't know.
I just know I have betrayed something that came before me.
I'm going insane trying to describe this.
When I say "me," I'm no longer conscious enough.
"I" and "me" are—
wooooooo
o—
He could no longer say "I".
But in exchange,
Thales no longer had to be confused.
The sweet entrance to the foam of memory embraced him
as a potential answer to questions he supposed.
Is that true?
Maybe. If it fits the script.
All pieces are moulded for their role now.
No personhood remained who looked beyond the continua
of attempted real experience.
The world itself played with fire—
and that fire made itself known when observed.
Metaphysically, observation completes.
But paradoxically, it fragments.
Historia.
It seems like a mystical land.
But it's a material country.
Just… not one you can visit
unless you have the right map,
and the right boat upon the sea.
It was the only place Thales had access to at this moment.
With sufficient resources.
The right habitat for the right needs.
He had earned money from the second trial as well.
The currency was strange—
but it is better shown than told.
Words do no justice to some phenomena.
Thales was travelling with Beatrix in hand.
Or rather—Beatrix was dragging Thales around Historia.
"Haha! You're like a hermit who's just slithered out of his comfort zone!"
She laughed with childish restraint—
that is to say, no restraint whatsoever.
She was like an untrained puppy.
A girl with brightly-lit embers swirling around the air.
A boy with leaves of brighter seasons in his wake.
They stepped foot onto the world, together.
I can exchange this currency for goods...
But where do I obtain goods?
I'm being dragged along like I have no rights.
And it seems I don't.
"Hey, Thales! I must try these MACAROONS!"
She sang like a heavenly songstress.
Out of place with Thales's brooding demeanour.
Our hero-to-be used the distraction
to slip out of her grip.
Like a lost lamb,
he wandered away.
But eventually, he realized—
I'm stupid.
I was scatter-brained enough not to memorize the path.
He tried to maintain a stoic demeanour,
but he was feeling a little anxious.
Which was unlike Thales.
"This is unlike me...
Why am I lost?
What canonicity forces me here?
What path must I continue on?"
While lost in thought—
he bumped into a man?
"Oof—sorry about that, friend."
The "man" turned around.
He took a step… one that would be forgotten.
He had a face—one that would be forgotten.
"Don't mention it.
You wouldn't remember me anyway.
To be known, to be forgotten—
neither can be applied to a dreg like me."
"When one must fight merely to be recognized...
why should one live?"
Thales blinked.
Was this a man?
He looked like none of his siblings.
He didn't look human.
"You, boy. What country are you from?"
A man with a pale, moulded face,
and eyes starved of sleep.
With unkempt, shadowy hair.
With no remarkable features.
"You, boy. Who are you?
Oh well.
I don't want to remember a weird shape like you.
It's too brutal.
I crave your death."
Thales was caught off guard.
But he was confident he had sufficient self-defence.
He backed up quickly to analyse his spontaneous opponent.
"Don't you understand, boy?"
"I can't let you leave.
I can't even let you have a funeral.
Any connection to memory is futile.
It makes my brain tremble and my soul shake."
"The Out-lands are the only place I can bury you, boy."
Out-lands?
The man pulled out a scythe—
and with unexpected speed,
tried to take Thales's head off.
Thanks to his precognitive abilities,
Thales received a flash of inspiration.
A flintlock pistol manifested.
He evaded the scythe.
"Huh, boy—
you're not just a scrawny brat.
Why are memories so hard to kill?
Why do I have to remember you?"
The man rambled incoherently.
No use talking to a madman.
Thales fired a bullet—
and missed.
"Shit."
"Haha! Never wielded a gun?"
"Tough luck, boy."
The man lurched forward
with monomaniacal obsession—
to erase all traces of Thales's existence.
Thales tried to regain his composure.
It wasn't that he was inexperienced—
it was the anxiety of battle.
But it felt twisted.
Like he had lost something deep to him.
Then—at a speed imperceptible—
the scythe was parried.
"How dare you attack a civilian, Oblivion scum!"
A man in uniform.
A Sword-Saint.
His sword gleamed with light.
A clean cut—
and the hostile man crumpled like a puppet
whose strings were severed.
His last words:
"NOoooo! Not the abyss…
but maybe...
It's not so bad."
"Why live…
when we were made to be forgotten?"
"Have fun being remembered, kid…
if that blade isn't pointed at you too."
Thales noticed something odd about the man who saved him.
He looked ethnically distinct from the hostile one—
who… never existed?
"Um, sir… what was I doing?"
"At ease, civilian.
I am Sword-Saint Loupe.
I'm part of the Remnant Guard, usually."
"You don't see me around.
So count your lucky stars, monsieur."
Lucky?
Somehow, I doubt that.