Meruem did not sleep.
There had been periods in his former life when he had remained awake for days without considering it remarkable. Sleep had been maintenance, a biological concession demanded by a body otherwise capable of enduring far more than those around him. If necessary, he reduced it. If circumstances allowed, he ignored it.
Tonight was different.
Nothing prevented him from sleeping.
That was precisely the problem.
The house had fallen silent long ago. Edrin had claimed the small room nearest the entrance, partly out of habit and partly because, as he had explained before disappearing behind the door, merchants who survived long enough learned to sleep between danger and whatever they intended to sell. Mitu had remained awake somewhat longer, grinding something in the room where she kept her medicines before finally extinguishing her lamp.
Komugi slept in the adjoining chamber.
Meruem remained beside her.
Moonlight passed through the narrow gaps in the shutters, laying pale bands across the wooden floor. The forest beyond the house never became completely silent. Branches scraped against one another whenever the wind crossed the slope. Insects produced a low, intermittent rhythm beneath the trees. Farther away, something moved through dead leaves, paused, then continued.
Meruem identified each sound without effort.
None mattered.
His attention returned, again and again, to Komugi's breathing.
Sixteen breaths per minute.
Occasionally seventeen.
When she shifted deeper into sleep, fifteen.
He had not consciously decided to count them.
That irritated him more than the insomnia.
Once, he could enter a hall filled with hundreds of humans and reduce nearly every individual present to a useful category within moments. Threat. Resource. Obstacle. Irrelevance. The process had been clean because none of them required more attention than their function justified.
Komugi had destroyed that simplicity.
A slight movement beneath the blanket drew his gaze. Her fingers had curled inward, then relaxed. Nothing followed.
Probably a dream.
He looked toward the shutter again, but his mind returned to the same problem it had been circling since evening.
Whale Island.
Mitu's proposal had altered the board without solving it. Her old house there might provide what Komugi required: a stable climate, distance from large concentrations of Nen users, clean air, predictable food, and—most importantly—Mitu herself. Yet reaching it would still require several days of travel.
Travel was precisely what Komugi was becoming unable to endure.
There was no contradiction, Meruem realized. Only two unfavorable positions.
Moving her was dangerous.
Leaving her where they were indefinitely was worse.
Whale Island represented neither safety nor victory. It was simply the move with the lowest expected loss.
He disliked such moves.
In Gungi, there were positions where no action improved the board. Every available choice surrendered something. Territory. Initiative. Pieces. Sometimes all three. The inferior player searched desperately for a miraculous attack.
Komugi rarely did.
She calculated which loss mattered least.
That had once annoyed him. He had considered such positions ugly, almost beneath the elegance of a true contest. Only much later had he understood what made them difficult.
Control and intelligence were not the same thing.
The player in control chose what happened.
The intelligent player could still choose correctly after control had already been lost.
Meruem's eyes narrowed slightly.
He wondered when he had started examining his own life as though Komugi had arranged it on a board.
"Are you angry?"
Her voice was quiet enough that another person might have mistaken it for sleep-talk.
Meruem turned.
Komugi had not opened her eyes.
"You should be sleeping."
A faint smile appeared. "That wasn't what I asked."
"You require rest."
"And that still isn't an answer."
Meruem studied her for a moment before replying. "I am thinking."
Komugi opened her eyes then, slowly adjusting to the darkness. "That's worse."
"Explain."
"When you're angry, eventually you stop being angry." She shifted carefully beneath the blanket. "When you start thinking about something, you keep going until the problem regrets existing."
Meruem almost dismissed the remark as another of her attempts to weaken the tension.
Instead he looked toward the darkened window.
"This problem cannot regret anything."
The smile disappeared from her face.
Neither of them needed clarification.
For a while only the forest remained between them.
Then Komugi asked, "Do you think I'm going to die?"
"No."
The answer came immediately.
Too immediately.
He knew it the instant the word left him.
Komugi knew it too.
She watched him without speaking, and that silence forced him to confront the weakness in his own response. It was unsupported. Not false, exactly. He intended to make it true.
But intention was not evidence.
Meruem had despised humans for less rigorous reasoning.
His jaw tightened.
"I don't know," he corrected.
Something in Komugi's face relaxed.
Not because the answer was comforting.
Because it was recognizable.
"I like that one better."
"Why?"
"The first one didn't sound like you."
Meruem frowned.
Komugi's smile returned, weaker now. "If you suddenly started promising things you couldn't possibly know, I'd start wondering whether Death Judge damaged the wrong patient."
She laughed once, then stopped when the movement disturbed her breathing.
Meruem leaned forward immediately.
Komugi noticed and lifted a hand before he could speak. "I'm fine."
"You are not."
"That conversation is becoming very repetitive."
"Then stop giving us reasons to repeat it."
Her expression suggested she wanted to argue. Instead she lowered the hand onto the blanket and allowed the silence to settle.
Meruem expected her to close her eyes again.
She did not.
"You're going to leave after Whale Island."
It was not a question.
"Yes."
"Alone?"
"Most likely."
"And Edrin?"
"He has already done more than his original obligations required."
Komugi considered that answer. "So have you."
Meruem looked at her.
"My obligations are irrelevant."
"That sounds stupid."
Silence.
Komugi blinked.
Her expression changed just enough to suggest she had heard herself after speaking.
Meruem's voice remained calm. "Explain."
She swallowed, but did not retreat.
"If your life is irrelevant, why do you need to survive the journey?"
"To return with Folklore."
"And if you find it but die before you return?"
"Then another means of transportation would be required."
"What if there isn't one?"
"I would account for that before taking unnecessary risks."
Komugi watched him with the particular stillness she adopted during serious Gungi matches.
It put him on guard.
"And if keeping you alive becomes necessary for the plant to survive?"
"You are inventing variables."
"So are you."
The reply was immediate enough to irritate him.
Not because it was insolent.
Because it was correct.
Meruem said nothing.
Komugi continued more carefully. "You keep saying everything is for me. The plant. Becoming a Hunter. Crossing the sea. Whatever comes after that." Her fingers closed faintly around the blanket. "But if every part of your plan makes it easier for you to decide that your own life can be traded away…"
She stopped.
Meruem waited.
"…then I don't think it's a good plan."
The room seemed to contract around the sentence.
He could have rejected it.
The argument contained emotional assumptions. His survival was strategically valuable only insofar as it increased the probability of Komugi's survival. If circumstances eventually produced a scenario in which sacrificing himself raised that probability beyond every alternative, refusing the sacrifice would be irrational.
Simple.
Except Komugi had not challenged that calculation.
She had challenged the assumption preceding it.
He had already decided that he was expendable.
That realization arrived without drama.
And therefore struck harder.
Meruem remembered the palace.
The poison.
Komugi beside him.
There had been no uncertainty then. His remaining life had possessed no value sufficient to justify leaving her. Staying had been obvious.
But they had survived what should have been their ending.
Since then, something in his internal hierarchy had failed to restore itself correctly.
Once, the King's life had been absolute. The Royal Guards existed in relation to it. Armies existed in relation to it. Nations could be spent against it.
Then Komugi had reversed the order.
Now her survival sat at the center.
Everything else—including Meruem—had become a piece.
Komugi watched his face.
"You're thinking loudly again."
"Mitu says that."
"I heard her."
"You steal methods quickly."
"I'm a champion."
"At Gungi."
"That still puts me one championship ahead of you."
Meruem ignored that.
"What do you suggest?"
Komugi's amusement vanished.
She had not expected the question.
"You're asking me?"
"Yes."
"Seriously?"
"Do not make us regret it."
She thought for several seconds.
"When you leave," she finally said, "don't decide in advance what you're willing to sacrifice."
Meruem's gaze sharpened.
Komugi continued before he could challenge the statement. "That's like deciding all your moves before the other player even touches the board. Maybe you'll have to risk your life. Maybe you won't. Maybe the problem you find won't be the problem you're expecting."
A pause.
"And maybe you'll meet someone who understands something better than you do."
"Unlikely."
Komugi stared at him.
Meruem allowed another second to pass.
"Possible."
"That sounded painful."
"It was inaccurate to say otherwise."
Her smile returned.
Then Meruem noticed what her breathing was doing.
Not dangerous yet.
But shallower.
The conversation had cost her more energy than she intended to show.
"You are finished talking."
"That's not usually how conversations work."
"It is now."
Komugi sighed but obeyed, shifting carefully onto her side.
After several moments she murmured, "My King?"
Meruem waited.
"Come back because you want to come back too."
His eyes moved toward her.
But she had already closed hers.
Within minutes her breathing returned to the rhythm he had memorized.
Sixteen.
Sixteen.
Fifteen.
Sixteen.
Meruem remained beside her longer than necessary.
He did not attempt to answer.
Not yet.
---
Mitu was awake when he entered the kitchen.
A lamp burned low on the table, illuminating three unfolded maps and the remains of some dark herbal drink. The old woman did not look surprised to see him.
"You finally stopped counting her breaths?"
Meruem stopped.
"How did you know?"
Mitu looked up. "Because everyone who thinks they're hiding fear invents a task."
Meruem's expression cooled.
She returned her attention to the maps. "Sit."
He did.
That, apparently, surprised her more than anything else.
The largest map covered the surrounding region. A second showed river routes and coastal settlements. The third was older, creased nearly white along its folds.
Meruem recognized Whale Island immediately from its outline.
Mitu placed a finger on their current position. "If Komugi were healthy, we'd use the northern pass. Fastest route."
Her finger traced the mountains.
"Altitude?"
"High."
"Temperature variation?"
"Severe at night."
"Road?"
"Bad."
"Rejected."
Mitu nodded and moved to another line following the trade corridor westward. "This one is easier physically, but it crosses three major market towns. Mercenaries, traveling Hunters, caravans. Too much irregular Nen exposure."
"Rejected."
Her finger moved south.
The third line made no strategic sense at first glance. It followed a river away from the direct route before turning west toward the coast.
Meruem stared at it.
"That adds two days."
"Possibly more."
"No."
Mitu folded her hands and waited.
Meruem disliked when people did that.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You expect us to discover the problem."
"I was hoping."
He looked back at the map.
Low elevation.
River transport.
Fewer settlements.
Minimal climbing.
Stable temperatures from the valley to the coast.
He recalculated travel time not as distance but as accumulated physiological stress.
The answer changed.
A shorter route requiring a medical stop could become longer than the detour.
A single crisis could end the journey.
Distance had been the wrong variable.
"We take the river."
Mitu nodded.
No satisfaction.
No praise.
For some reason, that made the decision easier.
"What will be required?"
She slid a sheet across the table. Food suited to Komugi's weakened digestion. Clean water. Blankets. Two medicinal preparations. Heating stones for the nights. Several herbs Mitu did not currently possess. A covered carriage until the river landing.
And money.
Meruem's gaze stopped at the final word.
"We possess money."
"Edrin possesses money."
There was a distinction.
Meruem noticed himself making it before Mitu commented.
"Then we will reimburse him."
The old woman's eye rose slowly toward him.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You reacted."
"I am old. We do that."
Meruem stared at her.
Mitu almost smiled.
He rose to wake Edrin.
The merchant reacted to the midnight request with less dignity.
"You need what?"
Meruem handed him the list.
Edrin read it once, rubbed his face, read it again, then looked toward the dark window as though confirming that the universe had indeed chosen this hour to punish him.
"You're serious."
"Yes."
"Of course."
He studied the route Mitu had selected and paused.
"This isn't the direct road."
"No."
Edrin glanced between them. "And you agreed to that?"
Meruem's eyes narrowed.
"That is the third strange reaction this evening."
Edrin carefully lowered his gaze to the paper. "I'll need a carriage. Someone with a quiet horse, not those half-starved things the northern drivers use. The medicines I can find before sunrise if the apothecary still owes me."
"You know an apothecary?"
"I know people who owe money."
"That appears to be your principal social skill."
"It has kept me alive."
Edrin folded the list and slipped it into his coat.
Meruem placed several coins on the table.
The merchant stared at them.
"What is that?"
"Your expenses."
For a moment Edrin said nothing.
Then the corner of his mouth moved.
Meruem pointed toward the door.
"Leave."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
Edrin took the coins and disappeared before his expression betrayed him further.
Mitu's quiet laugh followed him.
Meruem ignored it.
The first grey light of morning had begun to gather behind the windows.
He looked again at Whale Island.
The map showed little beyond coastline, elevation marks, two small settlements and a narrow harbor. On the western side, beyond a line of cliffs, Mitu had placed a small mark beside a wooded plateau.
Her house.
Nothing impressive.
No fortress.
No guards.
No defensive wall.
Yet the location possessed qualities Meruem could not create merely through force: isolation without complete separation, stable weather, access to water, food, medicine, and someone capable of recognizing Komugi's crises before they became irreversible.
A weak place, by the standards of his old life.
Perhaps the safest place available now.
The contradiction no longer surprised him.
Meruem rested one hand against the edge of the map.
Whale Island first.
Then separation.
Then the Hunter Association.
Information.
Access.
Folklore.
He had begun the night believing the difficult part of the journey lay somewhere far beyond the known world.
He understood better now.
The journey had already begun.
Not with a monster.
Not with an enemy.
Not even with leaving.
It had begun with choosing a road that looked wrong on the map because the person beside him could not survive the correct one.
Meruem stared at the curved path toward the sea.
The shortest move was not always the strongest.
Komugi had taught him that years ago.
Only now was he beginning to understand that she had never been speaking solely about Gungi.