Blind Solitude (1)
A blanket of heavy snow piled up on the nameless mountainside. Not a single footprint marred the pure white trail through the mountains, and the branches blooming with snowflakes stood utterly still in perfect stillness. In the quiet cabin, the only sounds were the occasional soft thud of snow sliding off overburdened limbs and the steady crackle of burning firewood. The scent of oak smoke was pleasant. Sitting in a rocking chair that swayed like a cradle, I gazed through the frosted window at the serene landscape—until I realized I was dreaming.
Dreams reflect desires. This uninhabited peace was a mirror of mine. My ultimate longing, after a lifetime of hiding and vigilance, using my organization as a fortress to protect myself: to eternally bask in a world where no one sought to harm me, where I feared nothing and no one.
A resonant voice addressed me.
"What an extravagantly selfish desire."
"It's precisely because it's extravagant that it's a desire."
I sighed and turned my gaze. The cabin stretched beyond realism into surrealism, and from where the firelight failed to reach, a horizontal abyss yawned black and endless. At its edge crouched the massive white skeleton of my mentor's spawn. The tiresome bones I always saw in these dreams, without fail.
Since embarking on the full assault on London, the frequency of these boyhood nightmares that had plagued me like a chronic illness had dropped sharply. In their place, lucid dreams like this one had increased. It wasn't entirely normal, but I was satisfied with the change—it let me sleep longer stretches, even if shallowly. Compared to the days when I'd snatch sleep in thirty-minute to hour-long bursts, it was a monumental improvement.
Yet dissatisfaction lingered, thanks to the ever more eloquent skeleton. As its speech grew fluent, so did its annoyance, returning no matter how often I swept it away. A bothersome growth on my psyche.
"I'm not a growth."
The bone embracing darkness read my thoughts.
"You know I'm no longer merely the remnants of Sir Crowhurst. What dwelled in the echoes of a dead man's fading regrets—what granted me this intellect?"
"Your shadow. The you that draws lines and keeps distance. The common thread between you and the imperialists you so despise."
"I know."
I replied with irritation.
"That doesn't make you a full part of me."
If anything, a contaminated part. It called itself "dwelled," but in truth, it was merely darkness pooling in the cracks like rainwater—like similar shadows gathering in dark places. If I wished, even here in my mental world, the activated Golden Age's Eye revealed its true nature in detail. It was merely a machine of past malice and chance, fueled by fragments of my conflicts, worries, anger, anguish, fears, and self-loathing. Machines have no souls.
The soulless beast spoke.
"You must accept me."
"Why?"
"To fulfill your desire, you'll have to kill, dominate, or possess."
"What?"
"Everyone in this world except you."
I wanted to ignore it, but the more I did, the more it ranted on its own. Fueled by my subconscious, it was hard to dismiss entirely, so engaging it—leaving some logic and direction—was better. It allowed something closer to rest. With luck, it might even shut up entirely.
As I propped my chin and stared askance, the beast continued.
"Your eternal peace is truly extravagant. No one is free from others' desires or the world's karma. Destroy the Round Table of light and truth—will you truly be free then? When you seclude yourself, having cast everything aside, do you really believe the world of men won't trouble you?"
Of course not. In the extreme, if nuclear war broke out, fallout would ride the winds to my doorstep. On a smaller scale, I might choose an island for its beauty, only for trash from every nation to wash ashore on currents and waves.
"Exactly."
"Humans are beasts forged of desire, and their civilization is one of those who desire everything in the world. Thus, you can never enjoy isolated freedom in such a world."
"Unless you ascend like the beings of the Golden Age and escape karma, to avoid being taken, you must take first; to avoid death, you must kill first."
"That's how people must live. Only exclusive possession and absolute power promise true freedom—perfect freedom granted to one alone."
"To dream of something more beautiful than pure gold, higher than any throne, you must become an imperialist."
"So accept me."
Absurd nonsense. The spawn's ramblings held some logic, but it was merely the remnants of Sir Crowhurst cobbling together my usual worries, concerns, and musings as its framework. To me, these were already digested themes. No reason to waver now, even if they were unresolved—or unresolvable—questions. For a long-dead beast, this was the best it could do.
"Beast, unlike you, I know how to compromise with desire."
"Compromise?"
"Yes. If the peace from shattering the Round Table ends as a fleeting daydream, so what? I've never even tasted that limited peace. If it breaks, I'll just reclaim it. It won't be as hard as toppling the Round Table."
"You won't be satisfied with that."
"We'll see."
"You won't be satisfied."
"Maybe. If it weren't for the words of a starved skull rattling in someone else's head, I'd take it more seriously. A guy who couldn't predict his own future in life, now playing prophet in death?"
"……."
"If you have nothing more, shut up for today. Sir Crowhurst, grand magus who couldn't even devour one inferior yellow pup."
The random beast born of my mentor's remains and my subconscious no longer bothered me. An exceptional stillness returned to the dreaming cabin. If my mind weren't so weary, I'd practice mental training as a mage, but now I just wanted to savor the quiet in blankness.
The snow on the windowsill had thickened a bit more. I deactivated the Golden Age's Eye and gazed long at the white landscape beyond. Seeing an ordinary view with ordinary eyes was, to me, an unreal luxury possible only in dreams like this.
A gentle shake came from my shoulder.
"Hyungnim. Time to wake up."
Opening my eyes, I saw Suyeon's face. A flash of irritation seized me—the backlash from such a pleasant dream. She withdrew her hand from my shoulder. Amid exhaustion that promised instant sleep if I closed my eyes again, I forced myself up and splashed dry water on my face.
"What time is it?"
"20:28."
"……Did I sleep without setting an alarm?"
"Yes. You didn't hear the vibration or the sound."
"I was out of it. And we still have that important deal."
"You were that tired."
Today marked three days since the knight commander's death. Overdosing on awakening agents had amplified my chronic insomnia; for the first two days, I'd barely slept. I'd nod off briefly, only to wake moments later. To me, it felt less like sleeping and more like staying awake with memory blackouts every twenty minutes. Yesterday, I'd skipped meals entirely, drifting all day. Only this morning did I finally sink into real sleep, dreaming that extravagant simplicity until now.
Warmth faded quickly from my sweat-damp back.
"The kids?"
"Ready and waiting."
"Got it. I'll head out soon."
"Do you need to oversee it personally? Rest more. You've skipped too many meals……."
"The timing's suspicious. No choice."
The ship carrying goods for the Northeast Faction of Los Zetas had held off docking, lingering a day in nearby waters. City skirmishes had wrapped up by dawn that day, but port unrest lingered even today. El Maestro's whereabouts were unknown, and Dobla A's remnants had melted into the poor, hiding their weapons. No martial law, though. No further shootouts, the British downplaying their losses for face, and the Mexican government eager for quick closure. As expected, but fortunate.
Gearing up, I left the safehouse by car for the docks, listening to Suyeon's concise reports for the addled three days.
21:00 sharp. The port security forces had the docks locked down early. So close to their garrison—less than five minutes away—lateness would be suspicious. Exchanging the agreed passphrase, the soldiers waved us through without issue. The occupying defense forces and FPDA+1 coalition wouldn't dream of major arms smuggling right under the naval base's nose. Especially the Mexican Navy, reputed far better than the army. Officers there were cartel-bought, but not the navy—or so the belief went. That blind spot was our opening.
But in dire recession, even the navy couldn't stay pristine. Satellite intercepts of Los Zetas Northeast Faction comms revealed the admiral of Mexico's 8th Naval Zone—"El Municiónero"—had keen interest in dealing with me. Another variable. Hence, Contra Almirante Martinez's personal presence.
From Suyeon's reports, it wasn't alarming. Once taking Zetas money, he had a temporary weakness.
Under spaced streetlamps by the pier, white waves crashed. Having demanded the person in charge, the admiral waited, hands behind back, staring at the dark horizon. As I stood beside him, he asked stiffly,
"You're the one in charge?"
Meeting his eyes from the same stance, I replied,
"Yes, Admiral. An honor to meet you."
"Are you El Municiónero himself?"
That nickname. I nodded curtly. "Yes."
His face lit with intrigue.
"Unexpected. You show up personally every deal?"
"Not always."
"Then why?"
"I'm hard to meet otherwise. Consider yourself lucky today, Admiral."
Light humor lubricates deals. Truth: early threat detection.
Admiral Martinez laughed heartily.
"Whether it's real luck, we'll see. Glad to meet you anyway. For my first arms dealer, your first impression's not bad."
"Thank you."
"Ship's coming in."
As he said, a 220-meter-wide multipurpose vessel (MPV) with 4,300-ton light displacement entered the bay mouth, weapons and ammo hidden among disguised cargo.