#727 (Patreon)

Test (2)

Charlie Beasley.
 

A stern expression, striking black hair, glasses exuding intelligence...
 

On the surface, he appeared wealthy and dignified, befitting the owner of a luxury hotel in Landa.

However, surprisingly, he was originally from the impoverished underclass, as common as the rats infesting the city's alleys.
 

He grew up with an alcoholic father and a frail mother.
 

Naturally, his alcoholic father beat his mother daily, leading to her eventual escape. His father met an untimely death, and Beasley became an orphan roaming the streets at a young age.

Like many street orphans, he nearly perished in some filthy back alley. But instead, he rose to become the owner of a hotel in Landa, a city notorious for its astronomically high real estate prices.
 

His secret? Puppet.

On the brink of death, Puppet took him in, clothed him, fed him, and educated him.
 

Perhaps that is why, even after the zombie army had turned to ash and Puppet had vanished, Beasley remained at the hotel to guide Oliver.

“Here we are.”

 Standing in front of Room 444, located at the heart of the fourth-floor corridor, Charlie Beasley spoke, barely suppressing his fear. Yet, he couldn't hide it entirely.
 

His trembling hands and feet, along with his evident desire to leave this place, betrayed his terror clearly.

“Then, I'll be on my—”
 

“Stay.”

Oliver's command was curt and firm, leaving no room for negotiation.
 

Charlie Beasley froze like a statue, and Oliver turned his gaze toward Room 444.

The room's door was surrounded by layers of spatial magic and black magic from the realm of creation. The barriers were so tightly woven that even the slightest gap was imperceptible.
 

Yet, Oliver's eyes pierced through them, allowing him to glimpse the room's interior and detect an ominous energy.
 

For instance, the demonic aura he sensed earlier near Kent's side...

“Is Mr. Kent all right?”
 

Although Kent stood just before him, Oliver hesitated to enter the room and instead asked a question, as if deliberating.
 

But the terrified Beasley, oblivious to Oliver's hesitation, simply answered.

“I... I'm not sure.”

“You're not sure?”
 

Even though Oliver recognized the sincerity in his voice, he pressed further. By now, he had little interest in sincerity.

“Yes. I've never met him directly.”

“Are you saying you've starved him?”

“Oh, no! Meals and supplies were delivered through spatial magic. We did our best... as instructed by the Master—”

“You're quite brave, Mr. Beasley.”

“...Excuse me?”

“In situations like this, you could easily be blamed if something goes wrong. And yet, you didn’t run. Was it for Puppet? To repay his kindness for raising you? Admirable. Personally, I think running would’ve been a better choice.”

“...”

“Although, running wouldn’t have helped, would it?”
 

Oliver spoke with a sharp, almost cruel tone as he glanced at Beasley.

Sensing the tension in the air, Beasley quickly responded.
 

“I-I can’t be sure, but I believe he should be fine.”

“Why do you think so?”

“A request came through earlier via the communicator.”

“...What kind of request?”

“A burner, a pot, vegetables, corned beef, and biscuits. He said he was making stew...”

Familiar ingredients.

Hearing this, Oliver discarded his hesitation and reached for the doorknob.

As his hand touched the knob, the layers of spatial magic and black magic Puppet had meticulously set reacted.
 

A violet barrier of magical energy manifested, generating a powerful gravitational pull, trying to crush the intruder like a black hole.

Simultaneously, the seemingly ordinary door transformed into a massive maw resembling human teeth, attempting to devour the intruder whole.

A combined spell of spatial magic and creation-based black magic, designed to utterly obliterate its target.

But none of that happened.

The reason was simple: the magical barrier that generated a gravitational pull dissolved like foam, and the teeth melted away—all the moment they made contact with Oliver.

Creak—
 

The door to Room 444, a space even the hotel owner couldn’t touch, opened absurdly easily.

As the door swung open, a familiar aroma greeted Oliver. It was the scent of stew, reminiscent of the first meal he had tasted in Landa after leaving the Joseph family.

“You’re here.”

Kent greeted Oliver as he stirred a pot of makeshift stew on a burner placed on the floor.

Kent, whom Oliver hadn’t seen in a long time, looked thinner, his face pale. Most strikingly, a knife was lodged in his side.

It was a familiar knife—so familiar that, upon seeing it, Oliver felt a phantom pain in his own side. And no wonder: that knife was the very one that had pierced his side.

The blade Jane, manipulated by Eternal child Pan in Neverland, had stabbed into him. Now, that same blade was embedded in Kent’s side.

“Thanks for sending the items I requested.”

 Just as Oliver instinctively reached to place a hand on Beasley’s shoulder, Kent, still stirring the stew, directed his thanks to the hotel owner.

Snapping back to awareness, Oliver turned to Beasley, who silently stared at Oliver’s hand with trembling eyes.
 

After a brief moment, Oliver placed his hand on Beasley’s shoulder and asked politely:

“Would you mind stepping out for a moment so we can talk privately?”

“...Of course.”

“And please ensure we’re not disturbed. Not by you, nor anyone else.”

At those words, not only did Beasley stiffen, but several of Puppet’s apprentices, hidden throughout the hotel room, also flinched.

Oliver not only knew about their presence but sent a telepathic message to warn them not to act rashly.

Those hidden apprentices, along with Beasley, could do nothing but nod silently in agreement.

Receiving their answer, Oliver stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

Creak—
 

The door to the luxury suite at the heart of Landa’s most prestigious hotel shut with an unnervingly eerie sound, as if echoing someone’s feelings.

With the door closed, only Oliver and Kent remained inside.

Oliver surveyed the room. Puppet seemed to have taken care in its design—it was tastefully luxurious and comfortable without being overdone.

After examining the room, Oliver turned his attention back to Kent. Pale, thin, and with a knife embedded in his side, Kent stirred the stew.

“Sit. You look tired.”
 

Kent, now serving the stew into bowls, gestured for Oliver to take a seat.

Obliging, Oliver sat down, and Kent placed a bowl of the steaming stew in front of him.

“Did you know I’d come?”
 

Oliver asked, watching Kent as he set his own bowl of stew on the table and took a seat.

“I had a feeling you would.”

As Kent spoke, Oliver’s gaze drifted to the knife in Kent’s side—more precisely, the demonic energy emanating from the blade.

The energy was far from ordinary. Sensing Oliver’s stare, Kent broke the silence.

“What? Not hungry?”

At Kent’s question, Oliver shifted his attention from the knife to the stew. The rising steam carried a familiar aroma, stirring old memories.

It reminded him of his early days in Kent’s gang of beggers, after he had left the Joseph family.

He recalled the first time Kent had helped him, offering him a place in his group when he had nowhere else to go. He thought of the ragtag group of Beggars—those who welcomed him and those who didn’t.

The cheerful red-nosed man cracking jokes, the harmonica player who supported the group, the girl pretending to be a boy, and the old man...

Living among them, Oliver had learned much about the world in his own way.

“Hmm...”
 

Truthfully, those were good memories—at least, they seemed to be.

Back then, he hadn’t known much about the world, and perhaps that ignorance had made everything feel fresh and joyful.

Oliver picked up the spoon, savoring the memories from that time like a side dish. But before taking a bite, he stopped and set it down.

“Why not eat?”
 

Kent, seated across from him and eating the stew, asked curiously.

Oliver replied, “I can’t eat because I’m not hungry.”

“Really?”
 

Kent looked at Oliver skeptically. Considering Oliver’s current appearance, it was hard to believe such a claim. He looked emaciated, as though he hadn’t eaten for days—a look that wasn’t far from the truth.

In fact, Oliver was starving, ever since consuming the flesh of Human-meat Chef. Yet, even in his current state, he found himself unable to eat the stew. The human act of eating felt unbearably repulsive to him.

Oliver apologized. “I’m sorry. You went through the trouble of making it.”

“No need to apologize. I didn’t cook it because you asked; I made it because I wanted to eat it myself.”

“I see.”

“The food here at the hotel is good, but sometimes an old man like me craves the rough meals of the past. It’s like how self-made men sometimes long for the cheap booze they drank back in the day—to savor the taste of memories.”

Oliver nodded, understanding. After all, he had picked up the spoon moments earlier for the same reason: nostalgia.

“So… how does it taste, this memory of yours?”

Kent smiled as he emptied his bowl of stew.

“Worse than I remembered! Pahahaha!”

“Pahahaha!”
 

Kent burst into laughter, declaring the stew far worse than he’d expected. He wasn’t joking.

“Ah, I must’ve recreated it too faithfully. Just chopped onions and potatoes, seasoned only with corned beef and biscuits, with far too much water to stretch it out. No wonder it tastes worse than I thought—it’s practically a crime!”

“Couldn’t you have cooked it differently?” Oliver asked.

“Then it wouldn’t have brought back the memories. Besides, I thought it might taste better this time… or maybe too much time has passed to enjoy it anymore.”

It was a valid point. The last time Oliver had eaten that stew was years ago—a span of time that wasn’t short in absolute terms and felt even longer when considering everything that had happened since.

For Oliver, that time included becoming a solver, meeting countless people, reuniting with Marie, learning about the Chosen Ones, and fighting figures like Bathory, Shamus, Theodore, Human-meat Chef, and Pan. He had come to know things he would have preferred to remain ignorant of.

Kent’s time had been no less eventful. While perhaps less dramatic than Oliver’s, it was no less impactful. Using the money Oliver had given him, Kent united various Beggar groups, built an information network, and eventually used those resources to help other beggars and establish a welfare center.

It had been a long time—enough for the stew they once ate without question to lose its appeal.

“Perhaps time isn’t the issue,” Kent said, staring at the bubbling pot of stew.

“If not time, then what is?”

“Memory itself. Nostalgia is often deceptive. People aren’t great at remembering accurately; they have a talent for embellishing insignificant memories. For example, what we think was youthful camaraderie might have been nothing more than shallow acquaintanceship.”

Kent shifted his gaze from the pot to Oliver.

“Or the feelings we thought were love for a childhood crush were just obsession. The man we admired might’ve been an unremarkable commoner. We wrap our memories in a prettier package than they deserve. And when we see them for what they really are, we’re often disappointed. Do you understand what I mean?”

“…Yes, I think I do.”

Oliver’s reply carried the weight of experience. Kent responded with a bitter smile.

“What about your memories?”

At this, Oliver looked directly at Kent. He considered the sins Kent bore and revisited the faces of those he had met since his return to Landa: Paul Carver, random citizens of the city, the Chosen Ones, the Fighter Crew, Marie, Forrest, Joe, and many others.

The hotel room fell into an unusually long silence before Oliver finally spoke.

“I suppose I’m the same. I wrapped my memories too—and found myself disappointed when I unwrapped them.”

As he said this, Oliver’s face twisted with pain.