Light and dark. Light and bright. Light and dark. Light and bright.
A monotonous, rhythmic, overwhelming alternation of light and shadow, like the slow, heavy breathing of a giant, dominated Erika's entire world. The initial, retina-searing agony gradually dulled after countless repetitions, becoming a distant, numbing background beat. His consciousness, under this relentless, rhythmic washing, felt like sand repeatedly scoured by tides—gradually losing its original edges and form, becoming loose, diffuse, and drifting.
The sensation of his body grew weightless, as if no longer bound by heavy bones and aching flesh. Strange… what had he been struggling for, suffering over, crying out about just moments ago? Fragments of memory surfaced like sediment from the bottom of deep water, only to be swiftly swept away by the tidal surge of light and dark, sinking once more into the abyss of consciousness.
In their place unfolded the vision painted by the Blue-clad—the figure whose face remained hidden behind a halo of light, whose voice shifted between icy restraint and fervent zeal. A boundless paradise, bathed in soft, eternal radiance. No hierarchy. No loneliness. No fear. No need to struggle desperately for the "right to exist." Only endless, warm acceptance. There, "sin" was no longer a shame to bear or a source of suffering, but a mutually acknowledged bond, connecting all who walked beneath the light. All who walked there were "fellow travelers", those who recognized their own impurity—and thus stood without barriers between one another.
The radiance of the Merciful Father shone equally upon every soul that confessed its sins, cleansing them, linking them. Pain? Merely a necessary, fleeting burn in the process of purification. Loneliness? The final, illusory delusion before joining the ranks of fellow travelers.
As for that cold, distant question—"Have you repented?"—that still stubbornly flickered in his mind from time to time…
Erika's diffuse awareness lightly "touched" the thought, like brushing against a bubble about to burst on the surface of water.
If the Merciful Father forgave all sin, if fellow travelers bore all sin together… then what was the point of clinging to the act of "repentance" itself? Of insisting on clarifying exactly what he repented for? Perhaps that insistence was merely a residual stubbornness, belonging to the isolated self of the "past"—a meaningless defiance.
Light and dark. Light and bright.The rhythm pulsed like a heartbeat.
Then, the voice sounded again—not through a mind-link, but resonating directly within the rhythmic alternation of light and shadow. The Blue-clad's voice was now steady, gentle, carrying a deep, expectant magnetism:
"Lost soul, are you willing to cast off everything borne by that heavy, broken body—laden with sin and scars of the past?Your struggles. Your doubts. Your meaningless anger and delusional persistence.And walk with us, your fellow travelers, upon the path of penitence and unity guided by the Merciful Father?"
The question washed over Erika's unguarded mental shallows like a warm tide. Any remaining resistance had long since dissolved under the repeated washing of light and dark, under the soaking illusion of paradise. To cast off all those things that brought endless pain? To walk with fellow travelers toward a state of unity, free of loneliness and uncertainty?
With almost no hesitation, the answer surfaced from his calm yet empty sea of consciousness, natural and clear:
"I am willing."
The words left his lips more calmly than he expected—carrying even a trace of release.
The rhythm of light and dark seemed to shift subtly for a moment, like a confirming pulse.
Immediately, a second question followed, its tone deeper, bearing the solemnity of final confirmation:
"Are you willing to let the dust of the past settle completely?To forget the name that brought conflict and pain.To forget the past filled with error and deviation.To forget all the superfluous identities and memories that bound you to a narrow self.And to let your existence henceforth bear only the identities of 'penitent' and 'fellow traveler,' basking in the truth-light of the Merciful Father?"
Forget… Erika?Forget the border winds.The shadows of the Sanctum.The flames of the Black Tower.Wolfgang's training.Anna's eyes.Loren's terror.The shame of incontinence.The burn of intense light.The cold thorns embedded within his body…
Forget everything—good and bad, warm and cruel, his and not his. All of it.
The soft glow of paradise in his mind grew brighter, more alluring. The warm silhouettes of fellow travelers seemed to reach out to him from within the light. And the past, in this moment, felt like nothing more than weight, confusion, and bottomless exhaustion.
Cast it all off. Everything.
A vast tranquility, nearly seductive in its emptiness, enveloped him.
This time, the reply came faster—firmer, as if the final, insignificant barrier had completely melted away:
"I am willing."
The moment the words fell, the rhythmic alternation of light and dark ceased.
Not fading into darkness, but replaced entirely by a uniform, soft, all-pervasive milky-white radiance. It was not blinding, yet cast no shadows, revealed no source—as if it were the very base color of reality itself.
At the same time, a low, solemn hum—as though countless voices were chanting in unison, blended with an inhuman harmonic resonance—rose from all directions, enveloping him. Unlike the unsettling silence or mechanical noise of the chamber before, this sound carried a vast power of comfort, acceptance, and the erasure of individual noise.
Wrapped in this uniform light and sound, Erika felt the last remnant belonging to "Erika"—that residual sense of self that had persisted even through collapse—evaporate quietly, like dew beneath the sun.
His body remained bound to the chair.His eyes remained unable to close.
But "Erika" was fading.
A blank vessel—without past, without name, without independent will—bearing only the identity of "penitent", waiting to be completely filled by the light of the Merciful Father—was being silently shaped within the uniform radiance and solemn hum.
He stared calmly ahead, eyes reflecting boundless white.
Awaiting his new beginning as a fellow traveler.
Finally, the rhythm that had grown numb—solemn to the point of disorientation—ceased without warning.
Not fading out. Instantly.
Like a snapped string. Everything collapsed into absolute silence. No fading hum, no lingering afterimages—only a thick, pure void that seemed to absorb all sound and vibration.
In this abruptly descending, total stillness, the last thread of Erika's forcibly sustained, drifting consciousness snapped.
No struggle. No transition.
Almost instantly, his awareness sank as if into the deepest seabed, swallowed by boundless black silence.
Time lost all measure.
How long passed was unknowable—a moment, or an eternity.
A faint, fragile sensation, like the blind probing of a deep-sea fish, brushed against the edge of consciousness.
Smell.
Familiar—clean soap, faint antiseptic, and a trace of… warm human skin. The scent acted like a key, ever so gently prying open the tightly sealed door of awareness.
Then, touch. A relatively hard surface beneath him. Fabric with a familiar coarse texture. His body wrapped in garments that were soft, yet restraining.
Finally, light. Filtering through closed eyelids—the sensation of even, non-glaring indoor illumination.
Extremely slowly, with effort and strain, he opened his eyes.
Blurred vision gradually sharpened.
A familiar room. Pale walls. A monotonous ceiling. The cold-white glow of the ever-present overhead strip light. He was lying on… the familiar flatbed.
His gaze shifted, settling beside the bed.
A familiar person.
The sister. The one who had cared for him, fed him, cleaned him, combed his hair, smiled at him. She sat in her usual place by the bed, wearing her usual gentle, concerned smile, looking at him.
Everything was… back?
Wrong.
A violent sense of dissonance, cold as a water snake, coiled abruptly around Erika's spine.
Who am I?
His consciousness was "awake," perceiving his surroundings—but inside… it was an empty echo chamber.
This simplest question, like a stone dropped into a hollow well, stirred no familiar ripples—only hollow echoes, terrifying in their emptiness. The map of memory was blank. Only a few isolated landmarks floated without context: this room, this bed, this sister, fragments of blurred caregiving… But as for who he was, where he came from, why he was here, what he had endured—
Only chaos and fog.
Anxiety tightened around his heart like icy vines. He looked sharply at the sister, throat dry and constricted, his voice trembling with weakness and nameless fear:
"I… who am I?"
The sister's smile did not falter in the slightest, as though the question had been expected—perhaps even found endearing. She tilted her head slightly, replying in that familiar, soothingly gentle tone:
"You're Erika, of course. What's the matter?"She even sighed softly, with affectionate resignation. "We just went out for some air, didn't we? Don't you remember? I was right there with you."
Erika.
The name was spoken gently, landing in Erika's vacant awareness.
Oh, right… air. There seemed to have been… something like that. Being pushed. A corridor. Wind… and… some vague, unpleasant sensations, but what exactly—he couldn't recall.
Erika.
I am Erika.
He tried desperately to link this name to a "self," to carve out a place in his mind for "Erika"—an identity to attach to, a memory to cling to. But it was like trying to hold water. The harder he tried, the more futile it became. The name hovered there, weightless, rootless, unable to resonate with his current hollow interior.
"Erika…" he repeated unconsciously, his voice filled with confusion and self-doubt.
The sister looked at him. Her smile remained, but her clear eyes, without warning, filled with tears. They gathered rapidly, then fell silently—large drops rolling down cheeks that still maintained the curve of a smile.
"Erika…" she repeated softly, her voice gaining a barely perceptible tremor, yet retaining that uncanny steadiness."Always so strong."
Tears and a smile formed an utterly contradictory, heart-tightening image on her face.
Erika froze. An inexplicable impulse drove him to instinctively raise a hand, to wipe the tears from her face.
He tried to move his right arm—
Nothing.
A physical, absolute sense of missing weight and volume slammed into him.
His movement stopped dead. His gaze slowly, incredulously, dropped toward his right side.
The gray-white sleeve of the restraint garment hung empty, draping limply onto the bedsheet below his shoulder.
Strange?
My… right hand?
He looked back up at the sister, his eyes filled with wordless confusion and accusation.
The sister seemed to realize his discovery instantly. Tears still streamed down her face, but the curve of her smile never changed. She turned her head naturally—almost deliberately lightly, avoiding his gaze toward the empty sleeve and her tear-streaked eyes, as if merely glancing casually at a corner of the room.
Then, with that familiar, gentle tone—as if everything were perfectly normal—she spoke softly to the air:
"Later… let's try our luck again, shall we?"
Her voice was gentle, full of anticipation, almost coaxing.
Only then did she slowly turn back. Tear tracks still visible, but her eyes had already readjusted to that clear, caring look. Smiling, she waited quietly for his response.
Erika looked at her—at this familiar yet utterly alien person—feeling the hollow, incomprehensible absence of his right arm, turning over the unanchored name "Erika," and the seemingly mundane yet deeply chilling phrases "air" and "try our luck."
The sense of wrongness reached its absolute peak.
He opened his mouth, but no sound came.
Only boundless cold remained—and the sight of that eternal smiling face streaked with tears.
And the empty right sleeve, silently testifying to a past so completely erased that even the act of questioning it felt pale and meaningless.