Godfrey entered a motel. The motel’s reception lobby was small but tidy, with a worn wooden counter facing the entrance.
A faded couch sat against one wall beside a low coffee table stacked with old magazines, while a few potted plants tried to brighten the space.
Warm yellow lights cast a cozy glow over the tiled floor. Behind the counter, rows of numbered key hooks and a small clock pleted the modest, weling room.
The receptionist squinted when she saw a pale-faced, golden-haired man with heavy bags under his eyes.
One of his eyes was just a black empty hole, a daunting sight it was. His left arm looked like it was covered by an ornate armour, but when she noticed his entire body lacked armour, it dawned on her that this young man might also lack a left arm.
He looked like the typical young man who awakened late or had a weak summon, yet decided to embark on the profession of a freelancer but ended up biting off more than he could chew.
If she could guess, he was one of those solitary freelancers. Those ones wanted the spoils all to themselves.
"I want a room," Godfrey whispered. The receptionist nodded, then turned to the wall of keys.
"Don’t you think you need an eye patch for that eye?" She dropped a key on the counter. "From what I can see, the wounds you bear inside are worse than your eye and arm. It’s a tough world out there."
She sighed as Godfrey took the key silently and moved for the hallway.
"We have food."
Godfrey shook his head, a sign that he had no need for food despite looking like a man desperately hanging on to life.
He was in one of the small cities built in dungeons. In this city especially, people barely used televisions. Only top freelancing associations had those in their towers.
And this motel was on the outskirts. It would be one of the first to fall if there was a swarm of monsters, but in exchange for such a dangerous position, they gained lots of customers.
With a creak, the door opened, revealing a small room with a little bed and a door that led to the bathroom and toilet.
There would be no need for money until it was time to leave. Such business made it easy for people to flock in, but it was another matter entirely if they planned to leave without paying.
Godfrey’s knowledge wasn’t too deep, but most dungeon cities like these had black markets and people ready to experiment with their summon’s strange innate skills on captives.
The law wasn’t as firm here... Well, for now.
He sat on the bed, and silence engulfed the room for a while before he shut his eyes and opened the eyes of his soul in the soul space.
Days floating in that darkness did the unthinkable to him. Aside from being plagued by hunger, thirst and guilt, he spent days in absolute silence.
Where the voice of his mind was loud. Where the cycle of what he thought had grown past resurfaced. God! He even hallucinated.
Sometimes he drifted into sleep and woke up, thinking he was speaking to someone.
Listening to Mrs. Fukushima speak was the last straw. It snapped him, and now, it seemed like he was back to where it began.
Godfrey stood before his throne, staring at it. Words of fort. He desperately yearned for them but feared they would eat away at his pain, his guilt, his anger.
Sitting on the staircase that led to the throne, he leaned forward and buried his head in his thighs.
What do I do now? A soft voice, his own voice, whispered in the boundless depths of his mind. It forced him to shut his eyes as if that could silence his mind.
Alas, the mind was a hard thing to silence. It could be drowned out under violent emotions, but it would still speak.
Godfrey could tell. He wanted to pity himself, he wanted to hold onto this pain and guilt because he believed letting it go made him shallow.
It flickered in his mind. The moment his knights fought their last battle against the centipedes in the belly of the Black Sea. He gave them up for himself. They weren’t just summons but people he was growing to see as friends.
Slowly, he was making attempts to redeem himself from seeing them as just fighting machines, but all that progress drowned in the Black Sea.
Could it be that he valued the lives of his summons more than his own? What kind of a summoner was he then?
Maybe when he loved, he did so stupidly, and when he hated, it was extreme. Balance. Godfrey was learning balance, but it was harder than it looked.
"Godfrey..." A soft, sweet voice flowed into his ears. Godfrey’s right eye widened, then he tilted his head to his throne.
A head was peeking from behind it.
Isolde!
She had been sitting behind the throne, hugging her legs. After she was retrieved, worry clouded her thoughts, forcing her to e to the throne room.
"F... Frey..." Isolde’s eyes moistened when she saw him. He was far from the radiant man she knew. His charm and smile, far gone. All that was left was a pale, dark-eyed young man.
His skin had an unhealthy colour. The flesh around his eyes had sunken, but... only one eye socket had an eyeball.
The other was hollow. A sight she never thought she would see.
His iron arm made her lips quiver.
"Iso." His voice was extremely low. His one eye was wide for a moment, then it narrowed, and he turned away, smiling bitterly.
"I’m... sorry."
Isolde held back her impending tears. He already looked broken. Her tears would do nothing but worsen the situation. So, she approached and sat beside him.
"You cleared the dungeon."
"I did."
"It did this to you."
"Yes."
There was silence, a heavy silence that overwhelmed them both at this moment. Isolde held her man’s face, gently caressed it, then asked,
"An eye, a limb can’t break you. What happened, Frey?"
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