Chapter 243: Sylvia (6) Part 1

The island remained as peaceful as ever. Just as before, Sylvia showed Deculein her world—her paintings, her sketches, and drew his portrait. They walked together, and in the golden hush of evening, they ended the day with dinner.

Deculein cut her venson steak for her, poured red wine without a drop misplaced, and raised the glass with effortless elegance. Sylvia took in everything—his rhythm, his manner, his voice—committing it to memory, frame by frame.

"You cannot find meaning in a life that hides from reality."

Of course, Deculein spoke the way he did, no different from the man she’d drawn on canvas just yesterday. But something about it felt too real, stirring her anger, and beneath it, something softer. Sylvia could still see herself in the mage tower, smaller then, a young mage who clung to his words and called it learning when it was already something more.

“Be it tomorrow or the day after, I’ll be back when you’re ready. This journey won’t take long,” Deculein concluded.

Deculein turned and left the restaurant; however, Sylvia didn’t reach for him, as she didn’t need to. Half a day was more than enough for the paint to set.

Creeeak—

Behind her, the restaurant door slipped shut.

“Goodbye,” Sylvia muttered.

“... How much longer do you mean to repeat this?”

At that moment, Idnik appeared from the kitchen, Sylvia met her eyes, and Idnik raised an eyebrow—nothing more, but it said enough.

“I told you that you could leave whenever you wanted, Idnik.”

“No true mentor would walk away from their protégé,” Idnik said, taking the seat across from her and forking the piece of steak that Deculein had left behind.

Sylvia watched Idnik in silence.

“And the opportunities to research a magical space like this don’t come twice.”

As Idnik brought the bite to her mouth with her fork, Sylvia reached out before she could eat it.

“... Why?” Idnik asked, frowning slightly as she lowered her fork.

"Deculein was eating that."

“I don’t care whose it was; it’s just food. I—”

“No,” Sylvia said, shaking her head as she pulled Deculein's plate in front of herself.

“Seriously? After all that, you’re going to eat it yourself?” Idnik said, letting out a humorless laugh in disbelief.

"Eat from mine instead."

“That’s no way to ask.”

“Please,” Sylvia said as she set the plate before her.

While Idnik worked through her steak and took a bite, Sylvia only just reached for her fork, letting it fall into place above the plate.

Gulp—

Sylvia’s eyes fell on the steak Deculein had eaten and swallowed.

Deculein took a bite of this...

“... You’re not marrying the steak. Just eat it already,” Idnik said.

"What do you think, Idnik," Sylvia asked, coughing lightly before tasting the steak as if it meant nothing at all.

“About what.”

“About drawing Deculein.”

“Haven’t given it much thought.”

“... For the last five years.”

Time on the Voice obeyed no rule—sometimes faster, sometimes slower—but neither pace brought peace. Sylvia had become someone new over five years, but her life, piece by piece, had thinned in return.

“You’ll just end up giving in to Deculein anyway, so why should I bother?” Idnik said with a faint chuckle.

“

Hmph

.”

“You’re not asking because you’re uncertain. You asked because, deep down, you already know you’re going the wrong way, don’t you.”

Sylvia remained silent.

“A protégé can stumble, but it’s a mentor’s place to keep them from falling too far,” Idnik added, pushing back her chair and wiping her mouth with a napkin. “I’ll get going. I’ve got some magic research to catch up on. Tell Cielia I said hello.”

“Idnik,” Sylvia called, stopping her just as she was about to leave the restaurant.

With her hand on the restaurant’s doorknob, Idnik paused and glanced over her shoulder—back at Sylvia.

“Cielia is not a fake.”

Idnik remained silent.

“Cielia knows what she is—she’s known that she died long ago.”

On the island of the Voice, the dead were brought back to walk again, unaware that they had already passed—except for Cielia.

For a moment, her expression tensed—then she let out a dry chuckle, shook her head, and replied, “... Knowing Deculein, he would have said something like this.”

Idnik cleared her throat and then mimicked Deculein’s voice.

"’Truth or not, it doesn't make her any less fake.’"

“... Get out.”

With a chuckle, Idnik opened the restaurant door and stepped out.

As Idnik barely took a step down the slope, her heart seized. There was Deculein, leaning against the wall, his blue eyes gleaming, clear even in the darkness, like the eyes of a watching owl.

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Deculein inquired, barely turning his head toward Idnik.

“Were you listening in?” Idnik asked.

Idnik found herself momentarily thrown off. Sylvia’s routine hadn’t changed, but Deculein had—not quite the same as the version he was yesterday.

By now, his memories should have been reset,

Idnik thought.

"I happened to overhear it, but I had already known long before."

“... Already?”

“Idnik, am I a fake now?” Deculein inquired, nodding once.

Idnik could not bring herself to answer his question.

A fake who knows he’s a fake. A being who understands he was never whole. What words could I offer to such a poor soul—

“It makes no difference.”

“...

Hmm

?” Idnik murmured, tilting her head at the unexpected words.

However, Deculein remained as he was, as if nothing had been asked at all.

"Lead the way, and the place doesn't matter. I have something to say to you."

***

When we arrived at Idnik’s house, I found not a house at all—but something closer to a cave.

“... The place tastes of dust,” I muttered.

Far from the village, beneath the edge of the island, I stepped into Idnik’s house. An oil lamp gave off a faint glow, and the room held little more than a bed, a table, and a desk—wooden, worn—and dust floated like breath through the stagnant air.

“These are rare pieces. Don’t go knocking anything over,” Idnik said.

"You are calling these junk rare?"

“You call these junk? They are

real

, untouched by Sylvia’s hands or the Voice’s power—genuine objects. I searched a long time for pieces like these.”

“Is there a reason you’ve chosen to stay in a place like this?” I inquired, glancing at the desk worn with age.

“It’s because of the assimilation. Depending on the person, it takes a day—maybe two—before they start losing their memories due to the assimilation of the Voice. Take a seat.”

I wiped the dirt from the old chair with my hand, and for a moment, I thought of sitting down—but the motion stalled halfway, and I decided against it.

“And what would happen if the memories fade?”

“You’ll be just another villager walking out there on the shore.”

“Roughly how many villagers live here?”

“

Hmm

?

Oh

, yes—I did a bit of a census here once,” Idnik replied, pulling a brittle sheet of paper from the drawer. “This island spans 1,500.2 square kilometers, and it’s still expanding. As for the population, there are around five hundred thousand.”

I hadn’t expected such a size, as the island spanned almost as far as Jeju Island[1], home to around six to seven hundred thousand people.

“Of those, three hundred thousand came from the continent, and nearly two hundred ninety thousand of them now believe this island is their home—they’ve forgotten who they are.”

“... Is that all that’s left—ten thousand?”

"That census was from two Voice Years ago. By now, more than half of them have likely forgotten. It’s hard, you know—staying whole in a place like this."

“Voice Year,” I repeated, stunned by the absurdity of it.

“That’s right, Voice Year. Time doesn’t flow the same as it does on the continent. And this place—my home—maybe it looks like a shithole to you,” Idnik replied, running a hand across the battered desk with a smile. “But you know, no one’s living better than me out here. I’m basically a nobility on this island. Most of the real resources are broken or worn down to nothing.”

“And those real resources—where did you get them?”

“There used to be an island here—Dehlen. About ten thousand people lived here before the Voice consumed it. We’re still using what’s left behind—resources, food, whatever has held together,” Idnik replied, hanging her robe on the hook.

“And how do you tell what’s real from what isn’t?”

"How else would you tell? Mana, of course. Sylvia’s Primary Colors can manifest—no, create—both color and texture with near perfection, but they’re incomplete. Viewed through mana, you’ll find the stroke of oil and the residue of paint; ultimately, it’s still pigment. And Why haven’t you taken a seat?”

“Because it’s disgusting. Don’t you ever clean? You live like this without a single

Cleanse

?” I replied.

“Use magic at night, and they’ll notice.”

“... Who’s

they

?”

“The Vigilants,” Idnik replied, making a face like death itself. “Fanatics of the Voice. Monsters, every one of them. They hunt adventurers and scrub the memories from their skulls.”

I don’t know why, but seeing Idnik like that, I felt something like pity stir inside me.

“What’s with that look? It’s quite pissing me off.”

"To see Idnik, once Rohakan’s own protégé, living like this—pitiful and pathetic."

“... You’ve lost your damn mind. And how many times do I have to say it? I wasn’t his protégé. We were equals—we always were. What stories did the old man tell you? No—forget it. I’ll tell you myself.”

Idnik's face burned red, and the words came pouring out—her mission stories with Rohakan, of how many times she had dragged him back from the edge of death, the blood, the dust, the debt he owed. Idnik spat out that she’d stayed quiet and how ridiculous it was, Rohakan playing her mentor now, but she was done swallowing—until now.

“I believe it now—you’re not a fake,” I said.

Idnik let out a dry laugh, arms crossed over her chest, and said, “So you had your doubts all along—”

At that moment, Idnik’s words caught mid-sentence.

As Idnik looked up at the ceiling of the earthen cave, something strange bled into the silence pressing down from above.

"WOOOHEEEYWOOOHEEEYWOOOHEEEYWOOOHEEEYWOOO..."

It was a noise like metal scraping against your spine, and beneath it, the air grew colder with each breath, as if the cave had been holding its breath for too long.

“... They’re gone,” Idnik muttered about five minutes later, her face slightly flushed. "Ahem. Can’t believe I’m saying this, but they’re real fucking nightmares. Ugly as fuck, and there’s just way too goddamn many of them.”

“That’s enough. Do you have a map of the island?”

“A map?”

I nodded.

“Why?”

“According to you, I’m the fake one.”

Idnik's features tightened, and in her eyes, I caught something close to pity—this time from her end. However, I found myself smiling as a curl formed on my lips.

“If I am a fake, then my role is clear—to help the real one arrive on this island.”

1. South Korea's largest island, covering an area of 1,833.2 square kilometers, and a prominent tourist destination. ☜