"—eh?!"
Seven looked at Eden and saw her calm, composed expression; he steadied himself, certain there had to be a reason for her actions.
Looking down, he then knew he only had about two seconds to spare before the impact.
He ran in the air (a/n: not in a cartoonish run), more like in a cycling motion to remain in an upright orientation, that is to avoid leaning too far back and lose his balance.
He managed to grab a ledge midfall, but the layer of snow covering the rock made his grip slip.
"...Shit—!"
Whump, whump!
The cliff wasn't straight and steep but sloped at its base so he, thankfully, didn't fall outright. A thick layer of snow also cushioned his fall as he tumbled down the incline.
The roll carried him farther down the slope until he plunged into the river below.
Splash!
Water crushed the breath from his lungs as he splashed into the river with his vision still spinning, chest burning, and ears ringing as the cold bit deep into his bones.
Blop, blop, blop!
Bubbles rippled from his mouth as his descent in the water slowed until his feet finally touched the riverbed below.
Regaining his composure, he kicked upward following the trail of bubbles and reached the surface with a violent gasp, coughing and trembling.
But the thing is…
"I can't… shit!"
He couldn't swim at all!
Back on Earth, he had skipped every swimming class— no, that wasn't even it. He hadn't chosen any activities in physical education, and was now suffering because of it.
He kicked and flailed, trying to stay afloat, but to no use.
"All that flailing just to drown, young lad…" a dry voice called from the shore. "Get on your feet."
"Get on my… feet?"
Following the voice's instruction, he relaxed his legs until they touched the riverbed. Finally, he was now standing upright as the cold water only came up to his chest.
"See?" the voice added. "It's barely a neck-deep."
"..."
He wasn't surprised to find a river cutting through the snow covered forest. The village had one too, and this stream was likely connected given how the water remained liquid despite the winter season.
If anything, what surprised him was the figure of an old man sitting by the riverbank, illuminated by the moonlight that shimmered across the water in an almost ethereal glow.
"…You fu—"
He bit back the words, forcing his lips shut.
The old man was one of his suspects responsible for the stampede, or at least someone involved. But if the old man really was behind it, letting his anger show now would only paint a target on his own back.
And besides, he had no proof. The old man, this supposed to be potato farmer by day and fisherman by night, doesn't know that Seven had seen through his disguise.
He knew he had no chance winning against a commander (a/n: as of now hehe), that was a fact.
"If it isn't mister Aizen. Fishing is your new hobby, eh?"
"Ahaha!" the old man laughed, tugging back his rod. A fat catfish flopped against the snow-dusted riverbank. "A new hobby, you say? Hah. Maybe, maybe not. Depends on how interesting the night is."
"…The night?"
"Of course," the old man said, smirking. "Potatoes aren't the only thing keeping me busy, you know. An aged man like me has to keep his hands in something."
"Oh."
Seven hauled himself out of the river, trembling from the cold as he shook off the water from his white long-sleeved polo.
"Young lad, if my memory serves me right, your name is… Seb, right?" the old man asked, flicking his rod back with a lazy twist of the wrist.
"Yes."
"Then do tell me, Seb," the old man said, "what foolish notion made you dive into Stygora's waters? Let me guess… did Iria dump her fiancé and—?"
"That's not it."
He interrupted immediately, cutting the old man's nonsensical words off.
"It's… it's a long story."
"I see, I see. Keeping secrets to your grave, ain't ya? Besides, it's not my business to pry on young people's relationships," the old man replied.
"..."
"..."
Silence followed between them, the only sounds were the soft trickle of Stygora's river, the occasional splash of a struggling fish, and the water droplets coming from his polo.
Clearing his throat, Seven turned around.
"I… I'll take my leave now, mister."
"Already?" the old man asked, lifting one brow.
"Yes."
He thought of a lie to reason back, anything that would put distance between him and this far-too-observant old man.
"I wouldn't want my fiancée worrying about where I've gone, mister."
"Aha!" the old man chuckled. "Then before you go, perhaps you'd like me to teach you how to fish? A man should know how to feed himself, and his fiancée too."
"Thanks for the offer, but… I really need to go."
Step, step.
Seven shook his head as he walked, he couldn't fall for the old man's temptations now, he mustn't.
"Ah, I thought as much. You're not one for patience," the old man leaned back, stroking his chin. "Very well. If fishing doesn't tempt you, perhaps… you'd prefer to hear about your oldest sister."
Step.
He halted upon hearing the old man's words.
'Oldest… sister? Is he dropping the act now? No, something's off. Damn it.'
"..."
He didn't react. He knew the old man wanted a reaction, and he wasn't planning to give him any so he continued his steps— though that momentary pause was already a reaction in itself.
Truth be told, he really wanted to hear about his oldest sibling, Eden— not the future her, he already knows about it in the novel, but the past her.
Step, step.
Despite his ignorant expression as he walked, he actually hoped to himself that the old stop him and tell him about Eden.
But...
"Ugh, my back's killing me," the old man arched his shoulders with a groan. "I think I should call it a night."
Instinctively, he turned around.
"Wait, what? You just said—"
If the old man would go back now, then there was no telling him when's the next opportunity like this would arise.
However, the old man simply crouched over his basket, muttering as he counted.
"One, two, three… four catfish. Hah. Four of these with some potato stew, sounds like a good dinner to me."
"Knight Commander of the Seventh Platoon, Aizen Medici. Do you think you can just say that and walk away?"
'Oh, fudge.'
He wasn't supposed to know the old man's last name. He only knew it thanks to the nameplate present on the tent he had run around.
But the old man did not even turn. Instead, he sat back down on the shore and lifted a finger and pointed lazily to the nearby tree.
There, half-buried in the snow lay a spare fishing rod.
"Catch a flying shark," the old man replied, as if suggesting he pick an apple from a tree. "Do that, and I'll tell you everything you want to know. About your oldest sister."
"A… flying shark?"