Chapter 537: It Really Hurts

Chapter 537: It Really Hurts

The rain beat ceaselessly against the umbrella surface, creating a dense, drum-like rhythm.

Though a cobblestone path wound through the courtyard, a torrent of mud washed down from above, nearly burying the boots.

And the deeper one ventured, the more frantic the rain and mire became, like a symphony building toward a grand ensemble.

Karen placed his hand upon the rusted doorknob and turned it gently.

The handle rotated, yet the door refused to yield; it was not a matter of a deadbolt, but simply a broken lock.

Stepping back half a pace, he raised his boot, carefully measuring his force.

"Bang!"

The door was kicked open, releasing a harsh, grating screech like a wire sawing through steel.

As he crossed the threshold, the door behind him seemed to be abruptly caught by the wind.

"Bang!"

The door slammed shut, sealing away the chaotic din of the storm outside.

The transition from clamor to silence occurred with an jarring speed, forcing Karen to pause a moment to adjust.

The foyer was rather filthy; a corner seemed to have been deliberately arranged as a mushroom patch, convenient for the kitchen's use without needing a trip outdoors.

Moving past the foyer, he reached the edge of the living room.

Upon each chair sat a puppet, none of them particularly lifelike, for their faces bore clear, segmented seams—under the glow of a desk lamp at night, they would look terrifying.

Liquor, coffee, and pastries were laid out across the dining and coffee tables, as if a lively gathering had just taken place, or rather... as if it had never truly ceased, but was still ongoing.

Karen found an empty chair, patted the cushion lightly with his hand, and turned to sit down.

Shifting his posture, he crossed his legs, seemingly dissolving into the very atmosphere of these puppets.

He then pulled out his cigarette case, placed a cigarette between his lips, lit it, and took a deep drag—partly to soothe the soul injury that had been flaring up recently, and partly to introduce a touch of "freshness" to the room.

The air here was cloying; though the furnishings were precious, everything felt coated in a layer of wax, and not a solid one at that, but a film that threatened to liquefy at any moment.

Was this the environment in which Philomena had been raised?

Karen took another drag, leaning back into his seat, and continued to scan his surroundings while slowly exhaling smoke rings.

He had arrived, but not entirely.

The host did not seem particularly welcoming to this guest, yet Karen felt no grievance at being slighted. After all, setting aside whatever grudges once existed between his grandfather and this house, it was his own grandfather who had cast the curse. If he, the grandson, were warmly received today upon crossing their threshold, it would instead feel unnatural.

With the cigarette still burning between his fingers, Karen lifted a wine glass from the adjacent coffee table with his other hand, raising it before his eyes to swirl it gently.

The glass and the crimson liquid within reflected an entirely different scene.

People were laughing and talking, people were dancing, and someone was excitedly playing an accordion.

Then,

An old woman's face peered close, her lips curled into a spine-chilling smile.

She seemed about to speak, but Karen immediately splashed the red wine from the glass onto the already greasy, expensive carpet.

The cigarette butt was dropped into the glass, which still held a remnant of wine, and set back upon the table.

Then, Karen crossed his hands over his knees and closed his eyes.

The grandmother and granddaughter surely had words left to say; he would wait until they finished.

As a guest, he must naturally accommodate the host's convenience first.

Karen's breathing gradually slowed; he truly intended to steal a brief nap.

Just then, however, the sound of a ball bouncing and rolling echoed from upstairs.

Once,

Twice,

Thrice...

Karen heard it with perfect clarity, yet he neither opened his eyes nor made a move.

Having weathered countless battles within ideological spaces, he had long possessed ample experience and the ability to dissect all manner of illusions.

He knew all too well that the moment he adapted to the opponent's rhythm and offered a response, they would drag him into whatever realm they desired.

The host intended to receive him, having no plans to leave him out in the cold, but if the gathering began in the main hall, she clearly wished to relegate him to a side parlor to amuse himself alone.

Karen chose to refuse.

Yet the sound of the ball hitting the ground began to draw closer, so near it felt pressed against his very ear.

Karen sighed; he had wished to politely decline the host's "kindness" by feigning ignorance of the hint, but the trouble was that the host had directly reached out and grabbed his arm.

He opened his eyes, and the vision before him was no longer the first-floor living room, but what seemed to be the landing of the second floor.

A little girl in a yellow dress knelt on the floor, tossing a ball toward a man who was likewise on all fours.

The ball rolled to the man, who first opened his mouth to catch it between his teeth, then sat upright before springing up to whip his neck, flinging the ball back toward the girl.

The ball rolled back to the girl once more.

The girl picked up the ball and looked at her... father, who stood opposite, drooling and staring at her with immense excitement;

Then, the girl turned her gaze toward her grandmother, who sat nearby knitting a sweater.

The grandmother looked down at the needlework in her hands, then raised her head to offer a loving smile at the frolicking father and daughter.

In truth, the little girl had no desire to play this game, yet she had to, because her grandmother wished to feel this way today.

Next came another round of the ball-tossing game between father and daughter.

Karen's position placed him directly opposite Madam Felsher; the "four people" present formed a diamond arrangement.

Karen held little interest in Madam Felsher, but he studied the young Philomena quite earnestly.

At this age, her face still bore traces of childish innocence, though very little remained.

"Grandmother, I don't want to play anymore."

Finally, the young girl summoned her courage and deliberately threw the ball to the side, and it rolled all the way to Karen's feet.

"Child, you must be good. A good child, first and foremost, must learn to obey."

The knitting needles in Madam Felsher's hands floated into the air.

Karen looked down at the small ball that had come to rest beside his boot.

Just as he reached out to pick it up, the ball suddenly transformed into Madam Felsher's face.

Her two eyeballs abruptly bulged out, and then two knitting needles burst through them—there was no spray of blood, but rather a tearing sound, like fabric being pierced.

"Buzz!" "Buzz!"

Karen's eyes were gouged through; the two knitting needles acted like long nails, piercing his eyes and pinning him to the back of the chair.

"Drip... drip..."

Blood leaked continuously from the corners of Karen's eyes, tracing down his arms to his palms, before finally slipping from his fingertips to fall upon the floor.

...

"He puts me in mind of someone."

Madame Felscher leaned forward, her gaze fixed on the empty space ahead.

Philomena stood at her grandmother's side, and in her mind's eye, a familiar figure seemed to appear, leaning motionless in a chair, blood dripping ceaselessly until it pooled on the floor below.

But when she blinked, the figure vanished, and any attempt to recapture it felt as though an invisible membrane were pressing directly against her vision.

"There is a certain resemblance, especially when the window was pushed open earlier; I truly believed it was him, but how could there be a second him in this world? It is impossible."

Madame Felscher reached up to gently stroke her wrinkled, aged face.

"Yet I know he waits for me, he has always been waiting, and I shall go to him, I shall see him to tell him how I have missed him; he was like a beam of light that dazed me for the greater part of my life.

But even the most beautiful new garment could not do justice to the moment of our reunion, and so I wish to be young again, to stand before him as I did in my youth, and pour out everything that has filled my heart all these years.

Philomena, would you fulfill this wish for your grandmother?

You have always been the most obedient child, haven't you?"

Philomena shook her head and said, "Grandmother, I wish to leave this place."

"Leave?" Madame Felscher smiled. "How can you leave? The one who brought you here has already succumbed, but no matter; once our family gathering concludes, I shall wake him again, for he must still escort my precious granddaughter away, must he not?"

"Will he be alright?" Philomena asked.

"You care for him? Heh, he might be left with a few psychological scars, but if we quicken our pace, it shouldn't be much of an issue; however, I still have quite a lot to say to you, so I cannot hasten.

He is that Cullen, is he not? Indeed, he is fairer to look upon than in the newspapers, a handsome lad; does my granddaughter fancy him?"

Philomena shook her head.

"You do not? Really, there is no need to be bashful; a woman liking a handsome man is just as natural as a man liking a beautiful woman.

He was very handsome too, truly, heh."

"Grandmother, can we end this now?" Philomena slowly raised the Nightmare Blade in her hand.

"Alas," Madame Felscher sighed, "I had hoped to accompany you gently through this final stretch of your life; why can you not understand my good intentions?

You ought to learn gratitude, Philomena, truly, you must learn to be grateful."

"I want you dead, as swiftly as possible."

"You are somewhat more spirited than before." Madame Felscher stretched. "Today counts as a family gathering after all; those who ought to come have arrived, and the one who shouldn't has been left to his peace.

Next, it should be just between you and me, my dear granddaughter; it is time you repaid your grandmother.

Answer me,

will you stand there willingly and let me have my way?"

"No."

"Then perhaps you should look down at the blade in your hand."

Philomena lowered her gaze, only to find that the Nightmare Blade she had been holding had transformed into a flute.

This meant she had already been drawn by her grandmother into a different tier of the dreamscape, where her grandmother's will could alter all reality.

Madame Felscher reached out and took the flute from Philomena's hand.

"When you were newly born, you loved to cry; if I pricked you with a needle, you cried; if I frightened you, you cried; I could not threaten you at all, nor did you fear me in the least, but your crying truly vexed me so.

And so, I took up a flute and began to play.

Strange as it was, the moment the flute sounded, you ceased your weeping at once.

I used it to soothe you, to keep you quiet, until you gradually grew older and began to fear the needles in my hand, the tone of my voice, the glare of my eyes.

This flute was never played again.

As time passed, I found myself rather missing it.

Do not blame me; though I gave birth to your uncles and your father, I never raised them for a single day, for there were servants to assist.

When it came to you, there was no one left to help, so I had to do it myself; though many a time I wanted to simply strangle you to death, I ultimately endured for the sake of the future.

Would you care to hear this sound once more?"

Madame Felscher raised the flute to her lips and began to play.

As the melodious notes drifted forth, Philomena lunged toward her grandmother, her hands switching rapidly between daggers and short swords, yet her grandmother, who seemed within arm's reach, receded into the distance whenever a blow was struck.

After a long while,

Madame Felscher smiled, looking at the already panting Philomena, and said:

"I do not believe my granddaughter prepared only this much for today; you should know that our true battlefield lies within the dream, not in reality.

I have told you many times that reality is but a dream, and you have nothing to cling to, for in reality, you can never be a match for your grandmother."

Philomena said in a low, resonant voice, "I have dreamed for so long, and now, I wish to wake."

The moment the words left her lips, the floor beneath her fractured rapidly, the cracks spreading outward, the chandelier overhead shook violently, the plaster peeled from the walls, and everything around them began to distort like a shattered mirror.

"A pipe dream."

Madame Felscher raised the flute in her hand and struck downward at the space before her.

A dull thud sounded.

Philomena spat a mouthful of blood and sank to one knee.

Everything that had been collapsing restored itself instantly, returning at last to its original form.

"My dear granddaughter, do you feel the chasm between us now?"

Madame Felscher walked slowly toward the kneeling Philomena, continuing as she approached:

"This is not because I have dreamed longer than you, but because—do you truly believe what you endured growing up is called suffering? True suffering is something only your grandmother can comprehend."

Madame Felscher extended her index finger, pointing it directly at the space between Philomena's brows.

"Woof! Woof! Woof!"

Just then, a man came rushing forward on all fours.

The corner of Madame Felscher's mouth twitched; she spun around, raised the flute, and drove it into the man's chest, pinning him to the floor.

"Awoo... Awoo..."

The man's tongue lolled out, his body unable to move further, yet he kept his face turned toward Philomena, his hand curled as if trying to touch his daughter's shoe.

"You are nothing but a dog, yet you truly regard her as your daughter?"

Madame Felscher directed a mocking smile at her son, who lay in a pool of blood.

"Very well, come now; I know you have an independent dream, one reserved solely for me, and I shall treat it as a gift from you.

Like a child building a castle on the sand, holding an adult's hand and saying who shall dwell in this room, and who shall dwell in that.

Come,

take me on a tour."

Mrs. Felsher's fingertip pierced Philomena’s brow, and a violent tremor rippled through the girl’s body.

Beside them, the father, lying prone upon the floor, had eyes brimming with unshed tears.

At last, the trembling subsided.

"Come along, Grandmother is right beside you."

Philomena rose with a vacant gaze, her head bowing first to cast a lingering look at her father, pinned to the floor by the flute.

"Awooo... Awooo..."

Her father’s canine paws tugged at the hem of her trousers, as if desperate to hold her back.

Immediately after, Philomena turned her gaze to her flank.

As blood dripped continuously from her brow, a crimson veil gradually enveloped her vision, revealing a young man pinned to a chair, utterly motionless.

"You still harbor a fondness for him, do you not?" Mrs. Felsher remarked.

Philomena shook her head with dull numbness and replied, "He is different from the rest."

A benevolent, maternal smile bloomed upon Mrs. Felsher’s visage:

"Love, as a rule, always commences in such a fashion."

"This is not love; it is simply that some people carry a light within them."

"Observe, you have discovered the exact same sensation I felt all those years ago; we are indeed true grandmother and grandchild."

"And yet..." Philomena paused, "who would ever sleep with the light turned on."

Mrs. Felsher froze in her tracks, her countenance darkening with sudden gloom, as if questioning her granddaughter’s state of mind when uttering those words.

Nevertheless, her suspicion could find no confirmation, for her granddaughter had always spoken in this exact manner.

"You could never comprehend that merely remaining beside the light is a form of bliss."

"It will blind you."

Philomena walked toward the washroom, and soon, the sound of spraying water echoed from within.

Mrs. Felsher lowered her gaze, staring down at the dying, dog-like man,

and murmured:

"My son, Mother suddenly feels a tremor of apprehension in her heart, heh."

The spraying ceased;

A stark naked Philomena emerged from the washroom, as was her habitual custom when at home.

It was only when bathing in Karen’s office, knowing he disliked it, that she had gone through the superfluous trouble of closing the door.

Philomena walked into her bedroom, with Mrs. Felsher following close behind.

The girl’s bed consisted of nothing but a lone mattress, devoid of sheets, blankets, or the comfort of a toy bear.

Without drying her body, she lay supine upon the mattress, the water droplets beginning to seep outward as her disheveled hair spread like a black rose in full bloom.

Mrs. Felsher lay down on the opposite side, reclining on her flank to watch her granddaughter.

"Sleep now, child."

Philomena closed her eyes, and Mrs. Felsher closed hers as well.

*Click...*

Everything in their surroundings dissolved into shades of gray.

Amidst the hazy gloom, a rustling sound arose from the floorboards as that dog of a man clawed at the crevices with his paws, forcibly dragging his own torso to crawl inch by inch into the bedroom; where he passed, he left a trail of deep crimson blood, the central furrow carved out by the friction of the dragged flute.

At long last, he crawled into his daughter’s bedroom, yet he did not halt, continuing beneath the bed until he finally reached the very spot he had always favored for sleep.

With his daughter sleeping atop the mattress, he curled his form beneath the bed, sensing that in this place, he could slumber in profound serenity.

Having adjusted his posture and coughed up another mouthful of blood, he forced his eyes shut even as his chest heaved uncontrollably from the wound.

*Click...*

The light extinguished completely, plunging everything into pitch blackness.

A brief moment passed;

*Snap!*

A solitary beam of light cascaded down, illuminating an empty space as though a piece of a once-unified region had been violently stripped away.

Presently, a chair manifested there, along with the young man pinned firmly to it.

Chains of Order began to sprout from the back of the chair, gradually enveloping the man’s entire form as a dense aura of Order flowed forth, wrapping his body completely.

Slowly, the man’s frame awakened from its stillness; he raised his arms deliberately, wrapping his hands around the two knitting needles pierced deep into his eye sockets.

"Sigh..."

A sigh escaped the man’s lips, heavy with resignation and reluctance.

"Whew... Whew... Whew..."

He took a brief, deep breath to steady himself, as if silently counting down, "Three, two, one..."

*Pluck!* *Pluck!*

The man tore the knitting needles from his eye sockets, his spine breaking away from the backrest as he sat upright.

The blood at his eyes began to recede, and the wounds within his sockets healed rapidly; it was as though nothing had transpired, and indeed, in reality, nothing had.

Yet Karen’s hands still gently massaged his eyes, inhaling sharply through his teeth all the while.

"Hiss... that truly hurts."

—

This particular segment of the plot was rather difficult to compose, so there is only one update today; I shall ponder and deliberate upon it further, and endeavor to write a massive chapter tomorrow to finish it in one breath.