Making Companions

The axe blade fell.

El could not close her eyes.

In that instant, the crowd's roar erupted like a detonation.

"Long live His Majesty the Emperor!!"

"The traitor has been put to death!"

The Emperor adjusted his crown the way a man does when he has only just allowed himself to breathe. El's fingers curled slowly inward.

That crown. That empire. Even the scaffold the Emperor stood upon. All of it had been built by Leon.

And yet all that remained for Leon was the name of traitor, and a severed head.

"Is this... how it ends?"

The voice, drowned beneath the cheering, reached no one.

The scaffold trembled. No — the world itself was shaking. The faces of the crowd smeared and ran. The Emperor's crown melted into light, and the blood-soaked stone darkened to black. Sound, smell, the cold press of stone against her feet — all of it vanished at once.

When everything had been swallowed by darkness, a sound came from somewhere.

Drip.

A faint light bloomed in the dark. The hard sensation at El's feet changed.

The ceiling of a worn inn. A small window letting in the first grey of dawn. And a man on a bed, dragging in a ragged breath as his eyes flew ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠open.

"Leon?"

There was no mistaking him. But he was far younger than the Leon who had stood on the scaffold. He lifted both hands. No battlefield scars. No calluses from gripping a sword.

Leon checked the calendar hanging on the wall. His grip tightened. The sound of paper crumpling was unnaturally loud. El's gaze locked onto the numbers.

Twenty years before the execution she had just witnessed. A time when the Emperor was not even emperor — when he had not yet so much as entered the race for succession.

This was nothing like the heroic epics or revenge dramas El had known. It was not a prophecy from some ancient text, nor a tale that promised a next life. It was as if everything were starting over from the very beginning—

El's ears stood bolt upright, making no attempt whatsoever to hide it.

"This is... regression."

Leon's gaze stopped in empty air. The surprise did not last. By the time he set the crumpled calendar down, there was already no trace of agitation left on his face.

Knock. Knock.

The sound echoed through the cramped inn room. Leon's eyes cooled to a chill. El followed his gaze to the door. A suppressed breath could be heard from the other side.

El's ears went rigid.

That voice. The man who, mere moments ago, had looked down upon Leon's death from the scaffold. But now there was neither an emperor's majesty nor a victor's ease in it.

Leon did not answer. The man outside did not press him. With only a worn door between them, the two men's breathing crossed in the silence.

The scaffold from moments ago overlaid itself before El's eyes. The bloodstained axe blade. Leon's head rolling across the stone. The Emperor looking down upon that death. Everything still waited beyond that closed door.

Then a smile formed at the corner of Leon's mouth. A smile entirely different from his previous life.

The hand reaching for the doorknob lowered.

El could not move for a moment. She looked from Leon's lowered hand to the firmly shut door and back again.

He had not taken it. This time, he had not taken the prince's hand.

Before she knew it, El was standing beside Leon, glaring at the door right along with him.

"Don't you dare open that door."

Laughter she could not hold back burst through her fingers.

"Heheh. Serves you right."

Something tickled deep inside her chest. Beyond the closed door, not a sound could be heard. What face was the prince making right now? Where would Leon go from here? What would those hands he had just lowered reach for next?

And then—

"......Huh?"

Darkness dropped over the space like a stage curtain. Leon vanished. The young emperor vanished. The worn inn room crumbled apart and fell back into letters.

El opened her eyes.

A thousand-year-old tree. A familiar forest. And in front of her, the familiar gallery screen.

The screen flickered. One word caught in her vision.

— Author: Silence

It was the name that had been written there before. She had not noticed it then, too absorbed in the title. But this time that part entered El's gaze with an almost unnatural clarity, sharper than the title itself.

"Silence......"

El rolled the name around in her mouth once more, as if determined not to forget it. Her eyes dropped to the chapter list beneath the author's name. She scrolled down with a finger.

Nothing came up.

She scrolled again. Still nothing.

The two ears that had stood so proudly began, little by little, to droop.

"......The next chapter?"

Perhaps she had seen it wrong. El closed the chapter list and opened it again. Still nothing. The dozens of possibilities that had filled her mind only moments ago had nowhere left to go.

What choice would Leon make? What expression had the prince worn? How would the next fate change?

She wanted to know. Now. Immediately.

El's gaze stopped on the comment box below the work. Her finger hovered in the air for a moment.

Demanding more was unbecoming of a noble High Elf. A queen from the books would surely have encouraged the author with dignity. After much deliberation, El wrote a comment.

Perfect. Dignity. Encouragement. And the implication that a next chapter was required — all of it sufficiently contained. El nodded in satisfaction and pressed the submit button.

The comment appeared beneath the work. But once she had sent it, it felt insufficient. There was no mention of when. What if Silence posted it tomorrow? A week from now? Surely she would not have to wait until he found his next work?

The drooping ears stood bolt upright again. El left one more line beneath her first comment.

Now all that remained was to answer the author's labor. El recalled the human etiquette she had read about ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in books. One who encounters splendid art offers the creator a fitting reward.

That much was simple. The problem was how much to send.

El rested her chin on her hand and sank into deep thought. She was not short on coins. However — Silence was likely a person who had transcended material desire. He had written a work of such caliber and yet had not attached a single line of introduction, a single line of promotion, to his post. He had not explained his intentions. He had not demanded compensation from his readers. He had simply left the work behind and fallen silent.

The sages in the books El had read were exactly like that. Pouring coins upon such a person like some vulgar nouveau riche could well be taken as an insult. But sending nothing at all was also a problem. She might become a ruffian who knew no gratitude.

Sincerity shown, yet an amount that conveyed only ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠her intent. The purest number that even an author who had transcended greed could accept without burden.

After long deliberation, El reached her conclusion.

"This should be enough for him to understand my meaning."

El nodded with solemn gravity. And without a shred of hesitation, she pressed the sponsor button.

Ding!

Ding!

My head snapped up. A number that had not been on the work page until moments ago had appeared.

"Coin."

That word caught my eye before the comments did. I had heard you could receive sponsorship for creative work. But I had never actually thought that a single piece of my writing would come back as coins.

"Oppa, there are two comments too."

"Wait. I just got a coin."

I checked my balance with trembling hands.

Exactly one.

Too little? That was absurd. Someone had read my writing and given up their own coin for it. More than anything, one coin was a fortune — enough to buy the most important item in the shop.

I opened the shop at once.

There was no reason to hesitate.

A small package dropped from thin air. One pack of red ramen. Sealed cooking water. And a disposable heating pad that could boil water without fire.

Perfect. Fortunately, I had been spared the misfortune of receiving just the noodles and nothing else. The tragedy of buying ramen only to crush it and eat it like a snack would not come to pass.

"Oppa."

"I know. Ramen."

"No — the writing."

"A person has to eat to write."

It was an irrefutable theory of authorship. The soul had been fed; now it was time to feed the body. I had starved for a full three days.

I poured the cooking water into a dented pot and set it on the heating pad. A moment later, small bubbles rose from the bottom.

Bubble, bubble.

The water began to boil. I tore open the packet, and the familiar smell of soup mix stabbed my nose. In went the noodles. I shook in the powdered soup. As the bright red broth came to a rolling boil, a smell that had existed only in memory for three years filled the room.

Spicy chili. Salty broth. Wheat noodles cooking through.

Instead of timing it, I fished out a single strand and put it in my mouth. A little too firm. I tried another ten seconds later. This time it was perfect.

"Thanks for the meal."

I did not even know who I was saying it to. I slurped the ramen. The hot noodles burned my tongue. The spicy broth scraped down my throat.

"Khhh."

Fuck. This is food. Not some nameless weeds floating in salt water — actual food. I did not stop my chopsticks. Harin's persistent gaze was boring into me from the side, but in that moment I was invincible.

Slurp. Slurp.

The noodles vanished in an instant. I lifted the pot and drank the remaining broth too, until the last drop fell onto my tongue. Warmth filled my stomach. Only then did the world feel like a place somewhat worth living in.

"Is it good?"

Harin asked, chin resting on her knees.

"Good enough to die for."

"Who gave it to you?"

"A reader."

"Then when are you going to write?"

The hand holding the chopsticks stopped. I looked at the work page.

Suddenly my eyelids grew heavy. It was strange. Until a moment ago my mind had been fine, but the instant the thought of serializing surfaced, all my strength drained away.

A curse, perhaps? It was possible. The Loners' Gallery had wizards in it, and Demon Kings too. Someone jealous of a suddenly appeared genius author might have cast a curse to suppress creative desire. The symptoms were exact. Heavy eyelids. Slowing thoughts. The urge to lie down somewhere warm.

"Oppa."

"What."

"That's food coma. You're just sleepy because you ate ramen."

"That's a hasty judgment."

Harin's observation had a fatal flaw. Just because the curse had arrived immediately after eating ramen did not prove that ramen was the cause. Rather, it was highly likely a sophisticated curse disguised as a natural food coma. So I must not move rashly. The curse could grow stronger.

"Oppa, your eyes are closed."

"I'm resisting the curse."

"While lying down?"

Before I knew it, I had laid my body on the floor. When? The warmth in my stomach spread through my whole body. The curse grew even stronger, as if it had been waiting. Dangerous. Before my eyelids fully came down, I squeezed out my last strength.

"Just five minutes with my eyes closed, and then I'll really write the next chapter."

"Yeah. The reader said they want it immediately."

Harin's words went in one ear and out the other. I closed my eyes. She began counting quietly.

"Oneee."

"......"

"Two."

"......"

"Three."

There was no answer. The well-fed author, belly full from his first sponsorship, fell asleep in three seconds.

El was staring at the empty chapter list.

She had left a comment. She had sent a sponsorship. And yet the next chapter had not gone up.

"How slow."

A childish pout clung to the end of her lofty voice. Her lips pushed forward, little by little. Good writing takes time. She understood that well enough. But understanding and being able to wait were two different things.

El's ears drooped.

If you never taste it, you can live without knowing. But once you have tasted it, you can never go back to before.

The drooping ears perked up with a twitch. A thought suddenly occurred to her.

"Must I be the only one to feel this suffering?"

El's gaze turned to the general board.

Posts she had normally considered completely meaningless were going up in a row. Put another way, it meant there were this many people with time to spare for reading stories.

The brilliant mind of a High Elf whose emotions had been awakened moved rapidly. The long-dormant nature of an elf awoke along with it. The corner of El's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mouth lifted, just a little.

There was no need to wait alone. If being alone was hard, you simply increased the number of companions waiting with you.

Heheh.

A short while later, a post went up on the Loners' Gallery.

A moment later, the numbers below the post changed.

The numbers kept climbing without stopping. And the first comment was posted.