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In In his imagination, those dream-filled nights were deep, dark pools where he could hide.
—Borges
Amon clearly realized that this was a dream.
In the dream, the horizon of the vast wilderness met a crimson-orange sun, its golden afterglow vanishing in an instant at the edge of the sky. The distant mountains were reduced to black silhouettes, while a parched riverbed meandered through the land. A gentle, cool breeze brushed through Amon’s hair.
Silence reigned, broken only by the occasional lonely chirp of a bird flying in the sky. He stood there, on this land, as the evening cold wind, soft as spring water, caressed his cheeks. Amon watched quietly as the sun went down until the last ray of light was devoured by the horizon.
The process was not long. The twilight’s glow upon the earth was fleeting, but as he stood there, time stretched out by the silence, like a slow-motion film.
The silvery white moon climbed up into the night sky. He looked up and realized this was a moon that existed only in the past time. The corners of his lips curled up slightly. He was in no hurry to leave this dream.
He explored this unknown land with the curiosity of a child beholding the world for the first time. He saw the dried riverbed, the towering, lush trees, the smooth pebbles glistening under the moonlight. He wandered aimlessly, as casually as an evening stroll, yet no matter how far he walked, the boundless wilderness stretched endlessly before him.
Until he saw a road.
Just like the wilderness itself, the road seemed to stretch into infinity, as if the world contained nothing but this empty land and the highway cutting through it. Amon lowered his head, tapping the road’s surface with his foot. It felt utterly ordinary.
He casually plucked a blade of grass and walked along the road under the moonlight. Tonight’s moon was unnaturally, abnormally bright, and he couldn’t even use the North Star to find out where he was.
It seemed there was only one direction left now, which was to move forward along the road. Even so, he didn’t know whether he was advancing or retreating back. Perhaps, he just walked on a Möbius strip, where moving forward also meant moving backward.
This aimless journey wasn’t particularly boring to him. Compared to the forty years of waiting in the Forsaken Land of the Gods, this was truly just an evening stroll. Though, for the one who was once honored by the title of the God of Mischief, having no exact goal was even more irritating than waiting.
The road was undoubtedly endless. He no longer bothered to discern whether the scenery repeated. He was surprised by tonight’s dream as he hadn’t thought himself susceptible to nightmares before this day. Yet he remained acutely aware that this was a dream.
Interesting. Very interesting. Amon chuckled softly, the corners of his lips quirking upward. He continued to wait.
Because just moments ago, he had realized that he couldn’t even leave this dream.
It was as if this were a meticulously crafted cage for him, devoid of rules, devoid of people, where even sound seemed like a lingering echo. There was nothing to deceive, no loopholes to exploit.
Such helplessness was uniquely rare for him. Once, as a son of the God, he had basked in his father’s favor. Even after his father’s fall, as a born mythical creature, he had enough power and means to “seek pleasure” for himself.
The last time he’d felt this powerless was when Mr. Fool had expelled him from the Sefirah Castle.
Amon wore casual attire – a white shirt and black coat, the style reminiscent of an older era. He didn’t know why he was assigned to dress this way, but he accepted it without a single question.
In an instant, the silence shrouding the land vanished. Time, once frozen, began to flow again. A fierce wind howled, shaking the branches into a rustling frenzy. Life seemed to surge into this place all at once, subtle vitality rising like a tide.
The honk of a car horn, as if traveling across half a century, finally reached him – a distant, wave-like sound, faint and fragile yet unmistakable. Amon paused, watching as a small black dot appeared at the end of the road, growing larger until its form became clear.
An ordinary car, driving alone on this desolate highway.
Amon stood there like a passenger who had made an appointment in advance, waiting for the car to arrive. He was certain it would stop for him. He intuitively knew it.
The car really stopped. The window went down slowly, revealing the driver’s delicate and handsome features.
Amon’s smile deepened. He leaned down, peering through the window. The young man inside had to tilt his head up to meet his gaze. Moonlight spilled over the youth’s brows and eyes, sharp as a close-up shot. His light brown pupils were like amber – clear, bright and pure. It was a look Amon had never seen before.
He had seen Klein in countless different ways, but never – in this one.
Amon laughed softly, and this laugh dissolved into the wind. Backlit, his face remained shadowed to the young man so he could not see his expression clearly. However, out of kindness, the driver asked:
“Do you need help?”
Then, as an afterthought, he added:
“My name is Zhou Mingrui.”
Because at this moment, separated by half a car window, the person gazing back at him was Zhou Mingrui.
The protagonist of a long-buried life and his untold story now appeared before Amon’s eyes, allowing him to complete the final piece of the puzzle about the other person.
This trip is worth it, Amon mused.
“Thank you for your kindness, sir. I was just wondering how to leave this place,” Amon replied with genuine sincerity.
Zhou Mingrui readily agreed to let Amon into the car. Once Amon was seated, he started the car again. He didn’t ask for a destination of his new passenger, as if assuming they were headed the same way.
Amon introduced himself with a smile.
“My name is Amon. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Fo–”
A screech of tires tore through the night sky. Amon was caught off guard by the sudden brakes and nearly hit the windshield. Of course, he didn't wear his seat belt.
“What did you call me?”
Zhou Mingrui’s hands still gripped the wheel, but his eyes locked onto Amon’s – deep and dark, devoid of any emotion, like a black hole. A chill ran down Amon’s spine.
He swallowed his words, sensing an unknown danger, and chose to correct himself.
“Zhou Mingrui,” Amon answered politely.
At this, the young man’s expression softened back into its earlier warmth and enthusiasm, as if the momentary shift had been an illusion. But Amon knew better. That aura of the Lord of the Mysteries was unmistakable.
In fact, it was precisely this recognition that had confirmed the youth’s identity as Mr. Fool who left behind many undying legends. But now, it seemed Mr. Fool had no intention of waking up.
Amon roughly guessed his current situation. For some unknown reason, his dream had intertwined with Mr. Fool’s deep sleep, and what trapped him now was Mr. Fool’s own dreamscape.
Wiping nonexistent sweat from his forehead, Amon straightened in his seat.
Time remained an elusive concept. The car’s faint interior light cast shifting shadows over Zhou Mingrui’s face. For a fleeting moment, Amon wondered if this was humanity-deprived Mr. Fool playing a role-play game of pretend with him. But when the youth turned to him with questioning look, all he saw was pure and clear innocence.
Amon suppressed his instinctive urge to flee. He had no desire to become a snack in Mr. Fool’s dream. After all, if he were to be devoured, it should at least be in reality. This would be too humiliating a way to die, he thought helplessly.
“Are you a foreigner, Amon?” Zhou Mingrui asked curiously.
Foreigner, Amon pondered the term. Dreaming Mr. Fool wouldn’t dwell on the topic of his lack of familiarity with ancient Earth’s cultures. After giving himself a moment to think about it thoroughly, he finally nodded in agreement.
“Really? You’re my first foreign passenger! Where are you from? Russia?”
Real Zhou Mingrui likely wouldn’t ask such questions upon first meeting with some stranger. Perhaps those circumstances made him unusually chatty. After all, they were the only two living beings in a hundred miles who could speak human language.
Amon, with his classically Slavic features, didn’t know that the “Russia” Zhou Mingrui mentioned was where his father had once resided. After a pause, he answered:
“Well, I’m from Chernobyl.”
Zhou Mingrui fell silent, his gaze turning odd. Fortunately, he didn’t press further.
“Where are we going, Zhou?” Amon asked.
“What do you mean? Aren’t we already there?” Zhou Mingrui replied, his tone almost clueless.
Amon went quiet again. They said dreams were reflections of desire.
Why was Mr. Fool’s dream an endless highway?
A barren wilderness and a desolate road formed the beginning of his dream. Or rather, the beginning of Amon’s intrusion into it. Perhaps long before Amon arrived, Klein had already been dreaming.
Amon said nothing more, watching the scenery outside. The undulating mountains resembled the spines of beasts, flowing backward as the car advanced. The view was framed by the small window, like a rapidly shifting oil painting. The night itself seemed to pulse and surge – any moment now, some terrifying monster might lunge from the darkness.
The night was dangerous. And here he was, not just surrounded by darkness, but possibly trapped in a frozen, unliving world.
“Zhou, aren’t you tired?” Amon asked.
He reclined lazily in his seat, while the youth beside him sat upright, focused intently on driving.
Zhou Mingrui stared straight ahead, his face expressionless, showing no sign of fatigue. He simply drove onward, as if compelled by some unseen force, unable to stop and unable to rest. Unable to catch a breath.
“I am.”
The moment Zhou Mingrui answered, Amon’s thoughts scattered. A wave of drowsiness surged, exhaustion creeping from his bones. He couldn’t resist the overwhelming urge to sleep. In this space filled with the faint scent of laundry, he closed his eyes.
Amon was woken up by piercing, blinding sunlight.
When he opened his eyes, they were parked on a city street, surrounded by bustling crowds as if they’d entered a metropolis. He turned to Zhou Mingrui, who was slumped over the steering wheel, face half-buried in his own elbow, his back slightly curved.
Like a kitten, Amon mused.
He was about to get out of the car to look around when the young man suddenly raised his head.
Zhou Mingrui stared at Amon with his sleepy eyes, while his mind was seemingly rebooting. His gaze was vacant at first, but then Amon smiled slightly and put his hand on the back of the youth’s neck. Zhou Mingrui jolted upright.
“Wh-what are you doing?” His eyes held suspicion and unease – the wariness from last night had returned.
The strangest part was that he didn't react with embarrassment - more like someone startled by an unexpected chill.
"Your neck will ache if you sleep in such an awkward position. I merely intended to massage it," Amon replied airily.
Did he really need to add that tone at the end? Zhou Mingrui complained in his mind.
Amon lamented the missed chance to pet the “cat”. Ignoring the other’s wary look, he asked, “Where are we, Zhou?”
Zhou Mingrui stretched, yawning. “Downtown, obviously. Come on, we’ll be late for work.”
Silently, Amon followed him through the city. The entire way, he observed everything around him. If he ignored the fact that everyone beyond ten meters had no faces, it was a lively, heartwarming scene.
That’s right, all living beings within ten meters of them were like programmed robots, moving numbly, without uttering a single word.
Zhou Mingrui stepped into the office building without a hint of hesitation, swiped through the turnstile with practiced ease, and pressed the elevator button. For Amon, all of this was entirely new. He followed closely behind, watching with fascination as his companion settled smoothly into his desk and immersed himself in the mundane rhythm of work.
And so began another ordinary day in the life of an office worker.
The people around seemed not to notice Amon at all. He stood beside Zhou Mingrui as if watching a movie from the best seat, observing as Mr. Zhou diligently tackled his tasks without the slightest attempt to slack off.
He marveled once more at Mr. Fool’s strong willpower, then turned his attention to the surroundings.
Outside the window, summer was in full swing – emerald-green tree canopies, vast snow-white clouds drifting across a blue sky, and the air thick with stifling heat. The bustle of pedestrians and cars on the street formed a simple yet lively, noisy scene.
The drowsiness of a summer afternoon was potent, but Amon was unaffected. He didn’t tire like ordinary humans. So when he looked back at Zhou Mingrui, the youth was already asleep at his desk. A glance at the wall clock told him it was break time – many others were napping too.
The passage of time here was bizarrely abnormal; Amon knew this well. One moment, he had glanced out the window – and suddenly, it was noon, as though reality were a flipbook where each moment existed in its own separate frame. A mere distraction, and the morning had already slipped away.
Then, abruptly, a phone rang.
Zhou Mingrui startled awake, checked the caller ID, and stepped into the hallway to answer. Amon trailed after him. Zhou didn’t stop Amon from following, so Amon overheard the conversation.
"Hello? Yeah, Mom, I’m fine. Oh, how was the birthday? Yeah, yeah, it was great. I ate well, celebrated, don’t worry… Don’t worry about me! You should focus on taking care of yourselves…"
Seemed like it was his parents. And, apparently, today was Mr. Fool’s birthday. Amon briefly pondered what he could possibly give him, though it was painfully obvious that his options were quite limited under the current circumstances. He had nothing in this dream.
Maybe I’ll give him something he likes when we wake up. The thought flickered through his mind. Flowers, perhaps? I wonder if he’d like them?
In this moment, he was no different from any other lovesick youth pondering gifts for their beloved. Of course, Mr. Fool would hardly acknowledge whatever was happening between them as a “relationship” in the truest sense of the word. But to Amon, that didn’t matter.
As Zhou Mingrui hung up, a blue gemstone appeared in Amon’s hand. It was clear and pure as the sky above.
Turns out, all he had to do was think of the treasures from his collection, and they could manifest here. And among them was this very jewel, kindly “borrowed” from Bethel.
Amon abruptly pulled Zhou Mingrui into an embrace, ignoring the youth’s futile attempts to squirm away, and draped the stone – now strung on a simple black cord – around his neck.
“What’s this?” Zhou asked, startled, fingers already lifting the pendant to inspect it.
“Nothing special. Picked it up at a flea market.”
Zhou Mingrui accepted it without question – and then suddenly found himself cornered.
Amon loomed over him, backlit by the window, his tall frame casting the youth in shadow. Zhou Mingrui had to tilt his head up to meet his gaze.
Like marble carved to perfection: sharp, refined features, obsidian eyes, a broad forehead, and dark curls – not a single detail was out of place. He leaned in closer, their foreheads nearly touching, so close that Zhou could feel his breath against his skin. The slight narrowing of Amon’s eyes did nothing to hide the smoldering weight of his stare.
“Happy birthday, Zhou,” the foreigner murmured.
Aaaaaaah! Zhou Mingrui’s mind short-circuited. Why’s he saying happy birthday like this?! Aren’t Russians supposed to be homophobic?! Or is it normal for them?
He forced an unnatural, awkward laugh, patting Amon’s shoulder. “Uh, thanks. Haha.”
Amon wasn’t surprised by his reaction. Mr. Fool was as shy as ever. Were the circumstances different, he wouldn’t have stopped at just a hug.
Regretfully, Amon straightened. Outside the window, darkness had fallen.
“Work’s over. Let’s go home.”
Zhou Mingrui took Amon back to his rented apartment, showered, and dug out spare clothes for him.
The summer nights were always stifling. Zhou Mingrui didn’t turn on the AC, leaving only the hum of a lone fan to fill the room like a lullaby. The two of them lay side by side on a narrow bed which was clearly never meant for two people.
Amon attuned himself to every sound around them – the chirping of cicadas, a couple arguing through the wall, the distant honk of cars, and Zhou Mingrui’s steady breathing.
He smiled faintly. Then, the air conditioner clicked on by itself. The room cooled instantly, and Zhou Mingrui’s expression eased further into peace. Satisfied, Amon wrapped his arms around him and fell asleep too.
It was the way one might cradle a kitten: firmly, as if shielding something small and precious. Burying his face in Zhou’s neck, Amon inhaled deeply, searing the moment into memory, his nose filled with Zhou Mingrui’s scent.
For now, this fragrance belonged to him alone.
A secret shared with no one else.
**
Amon woke first again, but unlike yesterday, the shabby rental room had transformed into a Loen-style bedroom.
The man in his arms still slept soundly. He tried to free his pinned arm but feared disturbing the cat-like sleeper, so he waited.
He’d rarely seen Klein this peaceful before. In Sefirah Castle, their dynamic had been strictly “use and discard” – Mr. Fool had never spared him an ounce of mercy.
He’d never had the chance to look at him like this and to study his features in repose. Before, Amon hadn’t understood why lovers stared at their partners and studied their silly antics as if unable to tear their eyes away. Yet now, he traced the curve of Klein’s lashes, the tip of his nose, the curve of his lips…
How nice it’d be if Ouroboros appeared right now and painted this scene, he suddenly thought.
Zhou Mingrui stirred awake, unsurprised by the changed surroundings. He simply called out:
“Amon?”
“I’m here.”
“Why are you holding me like that?”
“An accident, Zhou.”
In reality, Amon would’ve pushed further. He would’ve stolen a kiss, nuzzling closer. But he hadn’t forgotten that night in the dim car and the youth’s icy, lifeless, hollow gaze.
He dared not provoke him now. The consequences would be unknown, for both of them.
So, Amon stayed where he was, lazily watching Zhou Mingrui dress in hurried motions before finally following suit at his own leisurely pace.
His usual shirt and black trousers looked utterly out of place here.
As Zhou headed to the kitchen to make breakfast, Amon as always decided to join him and settled at the table to wait expectantly.
“Benson left for work early, and Melissa’s at school. Ugh, didn’t think I’d be the last one asleep,” Zhou muttered, slicing bread. “Well, seems there’s nothing here but bread. Let’s make toasts, then?”
He kept chattering, and Amon kept watching in silence. Outside, sunlight poured through the windows, gilding every corner of the kitchen until the walls themselves seemed cast from gold.
Summer in Tingen was beautiful and kind – at least to Zhou Mingrui who’d only just arrived here. Back then, Klein hadn’t known he’d one day become the Lord of the Mysteries.
But such thoughts were irrelevant now.
The only things that did were deciding what to make for lunch and how to spend the rest of this unusually peaceful day.
For the first time, Amon felt a flicker of déjà vu. All of this was weirdly familiar. A strange detachment flashed in his eyes, as if straining to recall something from a distant past, but then he smiled at Klein again and deliberately teased:
“Darling, hurry up. I’m starving.”
Zhou Mingrui ignored the foreigner’s endearment. Soon, breakfast was served. The scene felt surreal, as if it had repeated countless times before. Perhaps Zhou himself didn’t even notice the smile tugging at his lips.
This faint smile was soft and gentle as afternoon sunlight.
Amon suddenly wondered. How had Klein lived here before? Could something so simple, so unremarkable, really stir such deep nostalgia in him?
To Amon, “happiness” was a foreign concept. He’d always done as he pleased – outwardly amiable, inwardly arrogant, looking down on all beneath him. The appeal of this ordinary life eluded him.
Yet Zhou Mingrui seemed to have forgotten he’d known Amon for barely a day. He moved as if Amon were a long-time companion, their rhythm seamless.
Naturally, Amon was delighted. Not only was he witnessing Klein’s past, but he was also seeing proof that even the god as stubborn and unyielding as Mr. Fool had grown accustomed to his presence.
Klein was accepting his company.
Just like now.
After breakfast, Zhou Mingrui decided to take a walk. Amon didn’t ask where or why and he simply followed after him. The moment they stepped outside, they ran into an acquaintance.
“Good morning, Mr. Dunn!” Zhou greeted cheerfully.
Before them stood a tidy-looking man. Despite his receding hairline and dark under-eye circles, he exuded reliability – a good man, flaws and all.
“Good morning,” the man smiled at Zhou’s voice.
“Is Miss Daly not with you?” Zhou asked.
Dunn sighed fondly. “She’s busy with wedding preparations. I told her not to rush, but she won’t rest. Once she’s set on something, nothing stops her”.
It might’ve sounded like complaint, but his voice held no irritation. There is only boundless warmth and affection.
“Oh, you’re getting married? Congratulations!” Zhou beamed.
“Congratulations,” Amon echoed, grinning.
After parting with Mr. Dunn, they wandered on. Zhou chatted with Old Neil reading in the garden, bumped into Leonard strolling the streets, and found Mr. Azik in the library, buried in research.
Amon realized that Zhou Mingrui was tracing every corner of Tingen as if committing it all to his memory.
Sunlight filtered through the emerald canopy overhead, casting intricate lacework of shadows on the ground. Pigeons pecked at the pavement for crumbs before suddenly taking flight, vanishing into the unknown.
Time flowed sluggishly, or perhaps it was perception. In truth, time’s passage was subjective. Though this stroll held little intrinsic interest for Amon, he wasn’t bored. On the contrary, his thoughts about Klein – about Zhou Mingrui – grew clearer with every step.
Bit by bit, he began to grasp just how many “anchors” and “stations” his beloved had passed through in this life.
The sun dipped low, stretching shadows long. Amon lingered a step behind, studying Klein’s fragile frame – his straight, slender back, the vulnerable curve of his neck, his dark hair.
He looked so… ordinary. Fragile, like a small soul in a vast world. In the end, beneath the shadows born from light, all were equal. Amon couldn’t fathom how someone with such a delicate body had climbed to demigodhood.
It was a miracle.
He remembered the Forsaken Land of the Gods. He remembered Klein’s stubbornness and defiance, his eyes – bright and clear as daylight, even when all the light was swallowed by impenetrable darkness.
Amon didn’t regret what he had done back then in the slightest. For Klein, it might not have been a pleasant memory, but for Amon, it was the most fascinating thing to happen to him in millennia.
Even in defeat, he had felt a strange allure. It was the first time when defeat had ever stirred in him a desire to explore, to understand, to truly possess. For the first time, he hadn’t just wanted to take. He had wanted to understand.
He had never acted out of conscience. When he saw an interesting “toy”, he simply took it, and it was the end of the story. It had always worked flawlessly. Only after that loss had he felt the urge to understand something beyond his simple pleasure.
Amon tensed. Turning around, he saw the quiet, peaceful streets behind them crumbling brick by brick and collapsing into an abyss that grew wider by the second.
It was like a but in the system: absurd, chaotic tears in the fabric of reality, as if the apocalypse had arrived without warning. People who had been strolling there just moments ago vanished without so much as a cry. Amon's gaze snapped to Klein but Klein just kept walking forward, noticing nothing.
“Zhou, let’s go back,” he suggested.
"No. There are still people I haven’t met yet," Zhou Mingrui replied calmly.
Amon understood that Klein wasn’t entirely unconscious in this dream. Rather, he was choosing to ignore all inconsistencies, including Amon’s very presence here.
The destruction accelerated, and in an instant, black fissures stretched toward them like predators baring their fangs. Without hesitation, Amon grabbed Zhou Mingrui’s wrist and yanked him forward, breaking into a sprint.
He didn’t know these streets, but he trusted that he’d find what Klein needed. And he did. They stumbled upon a road where no cars traveled, straight as a blade cutting through all of Tingen.
Zhou Mingrui, who was already struggling to keep up, glanced around, searching for something.
Before they stepped onto the road, he saw them. He saw his brother and sister, walking hand in hand in the last rays of sunset. Their fragile silhouettes looked like dark brushstrokes against the burning sky.
“Found them…”
The moment his feet touched the road, the world around them – earth and sky alike – shattered like a carelessly torn photograph, then vanished entirely.
The vivid blue sky, the lush trees, the streets, the churches, the shops – everything was gone, as if a hurricane had swept through and erased everything without a trace.
Zhou Mingrui’s words dissolved into the fading wind, leaving only memories held close in the heart:
“Summer is over.”
**
Amon, holding Zhou Mingrui in his arms, suddenly realized just how light he was. He felt the tremors wracking his shoulders – rising and falling rapidly, like the fluttering wings of a butterfly. The difference was, a butterfly’s trembling wings carried hope for life, while this shaking spoke only of human despair.
Amon heard the disjointed words Zhou Mingrui kept mumbling but didn’t respond. He just sat there, letting him lean against him. He didn’t look, didn’t move. He was like an immovable prop, perfectly suited for support.
Amon knew that Zhou Mingrui was crying.
Once more, the afterglow sank beyond the edge of the wilderness, and they returned to this endless highway. Amon’s expression was cool, detached, his gaze trailing the dying light before settling on the man in his arms.
Zhou Mingrui had fallen asleep. Amon carried him back to the car, then sat beside him, studying his face.
Perhaps he was beginning to understand what Klein had meant when he said that “there are always things more important than others.”
He held Zhou Mingrui as they slept, chest pressed to his back, arms coiled around his waist tightly, possessively, in a way that a serpent wraps around its prey. Yet Amon had no ill reason, no malicious intent. He simply wanted to do it.
Amon focused on the warmth between them. It seemed to spread from where their skin touched, all the way to his heart.
He couldn’t remember ever feeling such a storm of emotions – inexplicable, unknown ones. He wouldn’t have been able to decipher them and name each one right now, but at the very least, he suspected they were all tied to his own burgeoning “humanity.”
Amon didn’t know if these two days had been real, a dream within a dream, or pure fantasy. He didn’t know if they had stayed still or truly driven toward some unknown destination.
It didn’t matter.
“You’re the only real thing here, Klein.”
He liked calling him by name. Sometimes it was “Klein”, sometimes it was “Zhou”, as if the terror of that night no longer haunted him.
The evening passed unbearably fast. Amon drove, eyes fixed on the road. He couldn’t recall when he’d fallen asleep again, only that he woke in daylight, the car parked on the roadside as usual.
He glanced at the back seat. His passenger was still asleep. Stepping out of the car, he saw the wasteland in daylight for the first time.
Tender buds sprouted on the trees; green shoots on branches starved for warmth. It was early spring, with its cool, howling winds tearing through the empty expanse.
Amon studied the young sprouts intently. He remembered every plant he had observed in his father's divine garden so many ages ago.
“What are you doing?” a voice came from behind.
Amon turned to see Zhou Mingrui stepping out of the car wearing nothing but a t-shirt, utterly indifferent to the chilly weather.
“Zhou Mingrui, you really don't take care of yourself at all,” Amon chided as he approached, taking off his jacket and draping it over the other's shoulders.
It was rare for Amon to address him so formally. Zhou Mingrui. Zhou didn't comment and didn't even react, leaving his companion without so much as a response.
They set up camp by the roadside. Amon lit a fire.
The flames burned bright and warm. In their flickering glow, Amon could almost see the bonfire from the Forsaken Land of the Gods. How much had changed since then – and yet here they were.
Deep down, Amon knew the answers to many of his own questions, but he never spoke them aloud. Wordless understanding was enough, so he remained silent, until the desire clawed its way out from beneath his skin like a snowdrop breaking through frozen earth, painful and itching relentlessly. Amon turned to Zhou Mingrui. Their eyes met.
Zhou was smiling gently, kindly, with nothing but his eyes, deep as the sea itself. He looked at Amon without saying a word.
Suddenly, the wind picked up, and the tiny buds on the branches burst into full, luxuriant foliage. The dried-up riverbed filled with meltwater, roaring as it carried shards of ice downstream. Amon watched silently as Zhou Mingrui stepped closer; the eyes gazing back at him tenderly were the very embodiment of spring.
Amon sat perched on a rock, his white shirt fluttering in the wind, outlining his slender frame. Without losing his trademark smile, he tilted his head back. The black strands of Klein’s hair, slightly grown out, now brushed against the nape of his neck. They were soft and well-kept, like the fur of a pampered cat.
Zhou Mingrui leaned in. And so they remained, frozen in a silent exchange of glances, a dialogue understood only by the two of them. Around them, grass grew wildly, and time slipped through their fingers like the relentless river current. Everything was changing rapidly. Only they remained motionless.
Like an unchanging eternity, surviving the shift of eras and the endless turn of the stars.
“Can I kiss you?” Amon asked, squinting slightly.
He looked obedient, like a puppy waiting for its master's affection. Though the son of God couldn't comprehend how such an ordinary desire could drive him to those emotions, he could no longer bear the feeling gnawing at his heart.
“First, answer me. Who do you think I am?”
Zhou Mingrui smirked, and everything that had been growing, flowing, moving froze in an instant, then vanished along with the echo of his final words.
Once again, only the silent wasteland remained. White powder drifted down like snowflakes, dutifully blanketing the ground. A reminder to Amon that the phantasmagoria of that scene had not been an illusion.
Or perhaps it had. Existed for a moment, only to be destroyed, leaving behind nothing but what it had concealed: emptiness and someone’s utter solitude.
The riverbed dried up again, cracked earth reappearing, but the roar of living water still echoed in Amon's mind.
So who was he? Zhou Mingrui? Klein? The terrifying Gehrman Sparrow? The Miracle Invoker walking the earth? Or the mysterious ruler shrouded in gray fog?
Amon looked into his eyes, seriously considering for a moment before answering:
“You are you.”
Names held no meaning to him. If the man before him wished, Amon would call him anything. Nor did he care for his identities, for he had already found something far more intriguing than Sephirah Castle.
Zhou Mingrui’s expression remained unreadable as he studied Amon in silence for a long while before finally speaking:
“Liar. You always lie.”
Amon had no intention of repenting. Deceit was his very nature. He would never deny himself that.
“Then let it be this way: only the words I say now are the absolute truth. Everything else is lies.” Gently, he took Klein’s hand, pressed it to his cheek, then kissed the back of it.
A gesture of absolute obedience. A gesture of surrender – once a prideful divine scion, now as the scriptures foretold: “Opposite the Angel of Punishment stands the Angel of Time, the ancient “King of Angels” who bowed before the Lord, ringing the bells of Heaven”.
The dying light of dusk flickered away.
Zhou Mingrui leaned against a tree, watching as Amon skinned the rabbit he had caught.
“You can actually cook?” he asked skeptically.
“Of course, darling,” Amon replied without blinking. There were thousands of Amons in the world, and surely, among them, there had to be at least one chef. In other words, obviously, Amon was an excellent cook.
Zhou Mingrui sat by the fire, occasionally glancing at Amon. At some point, he closed his eyes. Even so, he could still picture the flames dancing behind his eyelids.
Like the pulse of a living heart.
There was food in the car. Of course, he wasn’t about to tell Amon that.
“My dear Zhou, don’t you believe in my sincerity?”
“The question isn’t whether I believe you or not. Does it even matter when you don’t know what sincerity is, Amon?” Zhou Mingrui retorted lazily. “I don’t think we need to discuss this.”
Amon pouted. “Why not?” He turned the roasting hare with deliberate slowness before adding, “Though I never expected your trust. Blind faith in my words would only lead you astray.”
Zhou Mingrui shot him a withering look. How could someone be so shameless?
Amon offered him a piece of meat, holding it up to his lips, but Zhou smirked, waved him off and grabbed a sandwich he’d brought from the car instead.
Amon’s lips twitched in resignation. His petty, vengeful kitten had struck again.
Fine then. He would savor his hard-earned meal alone.
When the moon rose high in the sky, they both retreated into the tent. Zhou Mingrui didn’t forbid Amon from staying close, but when he tried to pull him into an embrace again, Zhou shot him a disapproving look and turned away. Amon, of course, put on a wounded expression. This was a protest against losing his privileges in this relationship.
Yet, once Zhou Mingrui drifted into sleep, Amon inched closer, pressing against him in silence.
Though Amon still didn’t know their final destination, their journey continued. Zhou Mingrui had revised his stance on physical contact – from outright rejection to begrudging acceptance, though conscious consent remained far off.
Perhaps that consent would never come. Deep down, Zhou Mingrui understood that his companion would always be that same hopeless, pleasure-obsessed stubborn thief.
Amon didn’t track time and didn’t notice if the scenery outside the window ever changed. He simply followed Zhou Mingrui everywhere, even if they spent most of their time in silence.
Truthfully, this was unfamiliar to both of them. After all, no one had ever kept them company for so long.
In the twilight, Zhou Mingrui leaned against the car door, window rolled down, while Amon paced outside with a handful of wildflowers. His gaze kept drifting back to the youth in the car.
The wind, as if on purpose, swept aside the strands of Zhou’s hair, revealing those ever-pensive eyes.
They were clear, brimming with unshakable solitude. They were the eyes that could reflect the entire dusk-filled sky.
In them, Amon saw himself – like in a black-and-white pantomime – and took a step forward. Then another, step by step, until he stopped three paces away.
The slowly setting crimson sun in the void of those eyes burned – and so did himself, a silhouette against the light, the only stain on a lavish scarlet canvas.
Zhou’s pensiveness was fragile, like thin spring ice on the verge of cracking at the slightest breath, threatening to plunge them back into winter’s chill. Who knew if they’d live to see another spring after all of that.
And yet, Zhou Mingrui smiled softly, in harmony with the evening.
A silent gaze shared through the window glass. Amon shattered the stillness first, leaning in abruptly, fingers catching Zhou’s chin.
Just like the climax of romantic films: lovers kissing with a breathtaking sunset on the background, bathed in the dying sun’s blessings.
Silence melted at the edges of their ragged breaths. In this dreamscape, their hearts pounded so loudly only a fool wouldn’t guess their owners’ feelings. Amon dipped lower, while Zhou Mingrui, bracing against the window frame, tilted his head to accept the unruly kiss.
Tears spilled from the corners of his eyes.
Amon wiped them away with his thumb.
For a moment, it felt as though Zhou Mingrui’s tears had scorched his skin.
**
Amon noticed Zhou Mingrui was sleeping longer, as if his strength was waning. So he moved him to the passenger seat and took the role of a driver. The road stretched endlessly, monotonous to the point of boredom, yet the presence of a dozing “cat” beside him made the tedium bearable.
He didn’t even need to watch the road, just press the accelerator. There was no real purpose to this drive. Yet despite that, Amon kept glancing at sleeping Mr. Fool.
After all, this was his dream too.
When winter arrived, the land froze instantly. Only the road remained untouched: snowflakes fell ceaselessly from the sky but melted before they could settle on the earth.
The world fell silent again, snow burying all signs of life beneath it. The wind and echoes died away, leaving only memories crowding beneath the heavy drifts.
Zhou Mingrui didn’t wake. Amon kept stealing nervous glances at him, slumped in the passenger seat. Truthfully, he already missed the clawed, temperamental version of Zhou from their daily life – better to have his arms covered in cat’s scratches than to see him like this, being a lifeless statue.
Right now, Zhou Mingrui resembled a distant mountain.
At the end of the road loomed a snow-capped peak, cold and majestic, as if waiting for visitors with indifferent hospitality.
Amon drove toward it until even the car froze in the snow.
When he stepped out the car, the icy wind cut straight to his bones. An inexplicable loneliness, sharp and sudden, clenched around his heart. He wasn’t sure he truly understood what loneliness was, but perhaps it was this unspoken, indescribable bitterness inside.
He froze, trying to pinpoint where this feeling had come from.
“Leave.”
Klein’s voice rang out behind him.
Amon turned back. The man who had been sleeping now stood beside the car. His cold expression betrayed the concealment of the Lord of the Mysteries – even with Zhou Mingrui’s soft features, this was Klein with fully restored memories. This was Mr. Fool struggling to retain his humanity, the dreamer lost in an endless labyrinth of illusions.
“This road has no end. Once you cross that mountain, you’ll only return to the beginning. But you, Amon, will likely never reach it.”
It was a Möbius strip. Klein just hadn’t expected anyone else to stumble into it.
He rubbed his temples wearily.
“I’ll send you back to where it all started. And you can leave.”
Amon stepped forward, grabbed Klein’s ice-cold hand and pressed it to his cheek. The corners of his lips twitched, as if he hadn’t heard a word.
Klein wasn’t surprised by his stubbornness. Amon had always been like this, refusing to hear anything he didn’t want to hear. Unfortunately, Klein wasn’t the Ancient Sun God so he had no patience for indulging a child’s whims and no kindness to spare.
The barrel of a pistol pressed against Amon’s chest – right over his heart.
“Death is also a way out. But I’d prefer we handle this civilly, without tragedy.” Klein’s voice was calm. “Amon, didn’t I give you a choice? Walk toward the sun, and you’re free. Why won’t you leave?”
Why stay here and wait?
Why invade his solitude?
Amon’s warm hand covered Klein’s where it held the gun. A moment, and the shot rang out. Blood splattered across the snow.
The mountain shuddered violently. Ice cracked. An avalanche roared toward them.
Klein stared at Amon in shock. He stared at his face, at the smirk that even death couldn’t erase, as if it were destined to remain frozen on his lips forever.
They stood at the epicenter of the chaos, and Klein simply let it all happen, let the world unravel as it would.
Then hands gripped his shoulders.
Amon pulled him into an embrace. He was trembling slightly. After all, the gunshot was real, and the pistol was no toy to scare disobedient children with.
Why is he so stubborn?
“Mr. Fool… did you... forget? This is my dream too,” Amon whispered in Klein’s ear.
His tone was dripped with triumph, like a crow cawing victoriously after getting its win.
“How selfish of you, Mr. Fool! I haven’t decided yet if I want this dream to end. Since when do you get to dictate what others should do?”
His voice was soft, his words were deliberately slow. Though phrased as a reprimand, the sly coquetry in them betrayed the spoiled child beneath the intricate facade.
My friend, why is your son like this? Klein thought impassively. He had no doubt the Ancient Sun God had truly loved Amon.
“What I desire becomes reality. Isn’t that the nature of dreams? Look, this is proof of your feelings for me,” Amon’s fingers brushed the pendant at Klein’s throat.
The blue stone, glowing vividly against the white snow, had been born from Amon’s imagination. Through it, he’d learned this dream wasn’t so rigid, nor so closed off from the world. At the very least, someone could still slip inside.
“You see, Klein, you're not as indifferent to me as you pretend.”
The snow avalanche had become Amon's irrefutable proof.
“I wouldn't remain indifferent to anyone who comes here, Amon.”
“But no one else would come, Klein. No one but me.”
No one else could have been drawn into this dream through the connection between the Uniqueness of "Error" and the Lord of the Mysteries. No one else would have willingly walked this dark road stretching into the shadow of the sun. No one else would have been bored enough to wander aimlessly on this Möbius strip for so long.
Perhaps someone else might have agreed to keep Klein company here. But only Amon had actually done it.
Only Amon had walked this path from beginning to end, witnessing all the seasons of Klein's life.
All of them, except summer, had been filled with nothing but icy, cruel winds and loneliness.
Amon understood that this might have been Klein's only chance to rest. This was a place where shadows of the past could come alive, if only for a moment. This was a place where he could see those who were no longer with him.
For this, Klein drove this road again and again, repeating everything over and over, until the carefully constructed illusion inevitably crumbled apart.
Yet each time, he got behind the wheel once more, stubborn to the same degree as Amon. If he hadn't been, Amon would never have needed to wait for that car to reappear on the empty road.
A flicker of exhaustion crossed Klein's face, and he sighed heavily.
“Amon, you've deceived me again.”
“Have I? This isn't deception. It's the result of your mercy, my dear. It was your indulgence that allowed me to change this dream.”
A pause.
“It's a miracle you gave me.”
Amon pressed a careful kiss to the back of Klein's hand. This time, Klein didn't pull the hand away.
The avalanche buried them mercilessly.
**
Amon woke in the backseat of the car. The driver, Zhou Mingrui, glanced sleepily between him and the road.
“Mr. Fool,” Amon smiled, leaning forward to embrace him from behind. “It's time for you to wake up.”
The young man at the wheel might have wondered at the meaning of these strange, convoluted words or, maybe, he thought about how foolish and naive they sounded. But Amon continued.
“Of course, I'm in no hurry. I just want you to know that when you open your eyes again, I'll be there.”
A second of silence.
“Grant me one more miracle.”
The miracle where God wakes up for him.