"Here, today, we are all once again gathered to observe the greatest champion this establishment has ever known in his unending rage!"

Keep your head up, back straight, and feet firmly grounded on the floor; if needed, dig in your toes to stay rooted. Kismet's words replayed in his ears, competing with the frantic roars of the audience, and instantly, Achilles stood taller.

"Yet first," Longclaw's announcer Dustfur continued, "let us welcome the utterly suicidal—eh, I mean most brave challengers!"

Another uproar rippled through the tightly packed ranks surrounding the arena as two gnawers sauntered out of the shade. They howled and circled each other friskily, then gave the audience a theatrical wave.

"Let us hear it for Threeleg and Crusher—here out of free will!"

The crowd erupted in cheers and laughter, although a few whistles and jeers interspersed.

"So, you two dare challenge our so-far undefeated human champion?" Dustfur leaped from his announcer space and planted himself in front of the two challengers—not an easy feat, considering he was nearly a head shorter than Crusher.

"Oh, please," Threeleg snarled, waving the stump of his left front paw. "We've watched him fight the other day. He is getting insanely lucky; I have got to give him that. But he's still only a measly human."

"Measly and puny, no matter if he wears that mask or not!" Crusher snorted. "Brother and I will grind him to dust!"

Achilles' jaw clenched. Lucky? He was most certainly not getting "lucky". He instinctively reached for his mask, adjusting it and noting the old bloodstain that marred its surface. Well, if anything, it added to the mask's impression.

"Confident as ever, they are!" Dustfur snarled and leaped back toward his post. "We will see if the confidence pays off. Will our reigning champion remain undefeated, or will he finally meet his match?"

Amidst the roaring crowd, Achilles firmly planted his heel into the gritty sand, surveying his opponents. His hand undauntedly grasped the handle of his sword, even though he had not yet faced two gnawers at once within the arena. Would this be the day he would die?

"And here he is!" Dustfur's voice cut into his thoughts. "Our reigning champion, with a flawless record of eighteen consecutive victories . . . He who is said to be feared even by Death Himself—the Great Achilles!"

With each step he took into the blinding radiance of the braziers, his foot stirred up a tempest of white sand, accompanied by thunderous cheers. Gritting his teeth, he regulated his breathing, allowing the screams to fade into the background. Drawing his sword and peering through the horned mask, his sole focus was on Dustfur.

"Fight!" bellowed the announcer, inciting his opponents to launch themselves at him in a coordinated onslaught, their claws and fangs bared. Yet Achilles had anticipated their attack well in advance.

If I cannot deter you from becoming Longclaw's champion, you cannot deter me from drilling you until you may truly call yourself "Greatest Warrior". And much to learn you have, snarled Kismet in his ear. You already visualize sounds; now you will learn to analyze them. And so he did.

One opponent advancing from the left with a determined trajectory and speed, another from the right with a slight deviation and slower velocity. Starting countdown, prompting action before the calculated collision in 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . .

It was not so different from striking a blood ball, thought Achilles. Like striking all the blood balls, only a hundred times more flawless. Rolling to evade, he weaved past Threeleg's teeth and Crusher's claws, then deftly swung his sword backward, connecting with Crusher's tail. The rat emitted a squeal of agony, but to his ire, the tail remained intact.

From the left with unprecedented speed. Impact imminent!

Achilles barely managed to process the alarm and react accordingly, sidestepping Threeleg's talons in the last second. He staggered forward and instinctively shoved the rest of the provided analysis aside. This was the difficult part—the part that required meticulous practice: filtering and utilizing the overwhelming flood of information suddenly available to him without being overburdened.

Echolocation on this level was so much more than just seeing; he had to work his body into shape to catch up to his suddenly overpowered mind. Awareness of an assault was useless if he couldn't decide on one of the countless suggested evasive actions and execute it before the attack landed. With two opponents, it was even more daunting.

But he could not afford to push any of it aside. Barely on time, Achilles intook the shrilling alarm and twisted out of Threeleg's reach . . . or so he had planned. He had let up for a moment, and so the gnawer's claws made contact with his arm, leaving behind a pair of bloody gashes.

Achilles screamed, watching fresh blood color the white sand beneath his soles crimson. The air pulsed with rage and agony. Oh, precious agony! It sparked before his eye and surged through his every fiber, searing away the mist. Against all expectations, it brought him serenity.

And so he whipped around, his unyielding blade clutched in a hand that should have been devoid of feeling and motion. Instead, it cleaved through the heavy air, singing a tune of unbridled rage, and delivered death to Threeleg within only a few heartbeats.

Waves of euphoria rippled through the air, and Achilles screamed. He pictured himself in the eye of a raging tempest, the trajectory and force of which he could precisely calculate and even command.

But with Threeleg's death, it all became almost too simple. He had battled a single gnawer so many times that it was hardly a challenge anymore. But the challenge of the fight was of little significance.

They do not come to see you win; they come to see you fight, Longclaw spoke in his head. It was the first thing Achilles had learned about being a champion on the day of his very first victory. We care little about who can defeat who faster. We care about who does it more spectacularly.

And so he was not battling; he was leading his remaining opponent into a lethal dance, into a spectacle worthy of his name.

No matter how many times Kismet preached that the battlefield was not for frolicking . . . the arena was not a battlefield—it was a theater. And if Achilles excelled at one thing, it was wielding his blade with improbable flawlessness, compelling his adversary to engage in an improvised routine that would conclude with his death . . . if the audience so desired.

During his first few battles, he had struggled to intuit the perfect moment to end this dance, yet he had eventually realized that his perception spanned beyond the scope of his opponent. If he could predict strikes through slight twinges of muscles, he could assess moods in the same manner.

And so, the crowd was under his sway, just as he was under theirs. He wielded his blade for their entertainment, and yet he felt like he held all the strings. When dusty sand sprayed out from under his feet and hot blood marked his skin, mingling with the salty taste of sweat and torment . . . When he was enveloped by the red-on-white colors of his rage, Achilles was omnipotent.

And so, in just ten short minutes, the sharp edge of his sword was poised above Crusher's neck. The gnawer wriggled and twisted in an attempt to escape from under his blade, but Achilles responded by applying more pressure to his tail with his boot until he ceased all movement.

He glanced at Dustfur, then immediately turned his attention to the second gnawer who had come up beside the announcer now, wearing a satisfied grin. "As anticipated, our Great Achilles has once again been victorious," snarled Longclaw, strolling forward leisurely. "What shall happen to his defeated opponent now?"

Achilles remained unyielding, his sword pressed firmly against Crusher's throat as the gnawer grew more desperate by the second. Longclaw's grin widened as he spread his front paws. "Who among you wants to see him live?"

The arena fell silent, save for a few lackluster cries and upward-pointing tails.

"And who wants to see him die?"

An instant uproar swept through the audience, together with a multitude of downward-pointing tails, as if poised to impale the defeated Crusher themselves.

Achilles' eye flew toward Longclaw, who nodded in confirmation. And so, without delay, the lifeless body of Crusher sank to the ground at his feet.

Achilles observed the crimson blood trickle into the white grains of sand before tearing his gaze away and jerking his sword up. If he had not successfully deafened himself just in time, the ensuing roars would have swallowed him whole.

***

"One day, you will kill yourself in that arena. It is only a matter of time."

Ignoring Kismet, he secured the fresh bandage and endured the lingering burn of the alcohol he had applied for disinfection. His eye flickered toward the spot where he had hidden ten bottles of the common root bitters that the gnawers handed out freely for every victory in the arena—a repugnant-tasting but potent substitute for his precious disinfectant reserves.

"We must further work on your dodging. I do not ever want to see anyone come so close to getting you as that Threeleg today," Kismet continued. "I know that it can be quite overwhelming to fight more than one opponent, but under the given circumstances, you did really well."

"Are we embarking to train, then?" Achilles turned his gaze away from the bandage, telling himself he could barely feel it. He would tell himself so many times until he believed it. It was one of three now . . . With nearly every fight, he shed more blood. And with each drop of blood he shed, he gained one more opportunity to tell himself that the pain it carried was meaningless.

He would tell himself until he could no longer feel any pain at all. Would that not give him the most splendid advantage? Or would he die sooner?

"Not today," snarled Kismet. "You know the rule: we avoid training on the day of an injury."

"Why not?" said Achilles, turning to her. "I am fine."

"You have sustained an injury that would knock someone else out for days," said Kismet crossly. "You are not fine, even if you claim otherwise."

Achilles shot her a sour look. "Why do you not sit on the bleachers with the others?" he asked. "If you watch me battle, you may as well do it openly."

"With those vagabonds?" She scoffed. "Longclaw is not one you want to mingle with. If you are set on ignoring this advice, I cannot stop you. But I will never grace his presence again . . . not even to ask what the hell he is doing here, as far from the gnawer's land as feasible. And even putting up an arena!"

"They fled from the plague," replied Achilles. "One of his minions stumbled upon the frozen tunnels some time ago, and after Longclaw had them scouted, he decided to relocate here in order to steer clear of any infected individuals from his own species. And about the arena . . . I do not think I have to explain that."

"Oh, and you know all this because . . . ?"

"Because I've battled eighteen . . . no, nineteen opponents in his damned arena now. And so, I have picked up on a thing or two."

"Watch out, lest those scoundrels become a harmful influence on you."

"Nothing can do me any more harm," said Achilles, fixing his stale gaze on her. "And now let us battle. I cannot be idle today."

"I will not battle you." Kismet shook her head. "There are no exceptions."

Achilles stared at her for a moment longer, attempting to fight back the rising despair. "Fine." He turned so that she would not see the flicker of emotion on his face. "I will take my battle elsewhere, then."

"You are not leaving this cave."

Achilles hesitated, then shrugged. He picked his sword off the ground where he had leaned it, and then his whetstone, carrying both deeper into the cave. Were the blade not his sole lifeline in the arena, he would bash it against the wall until it shattered into pieces.

In front of the staircase leading into Kismet's research hub, he halted. His mind flashed with an image, and the sword slipped from his hand. Perhaps there was something to pound repeatedly without destroying anything of value after all.

And so it happened that, after a ceaseless stretch of time, Kismet found him down in her cave . . . chiseling away at the unfinished steps that led nowhere. But they did not need to lead anywhere, thought Achilles. All they needed to do was exist and give him an excuse to use his hands for something that felt like an occupation. Give his mind an excuse to remain blank.

"Henry, what are you doing down there?"

No reaction.

She vaulted down and dragged him up by his collar. His mouth opened, but out came nothing. The tool he had found in a corner flew at her paw at an angle, and although Kismet blocked effortlessly, the move compelled her to release him. Achilles landed on all fours and aimed the chisel at her again and again, but she swatted his hands away until it slipped through his fingers and crashed against the opposite wall.

"I am not battling you!" she screeched.

"Then leave me to occupy myself otherwise!" he yelled back, but when he aimed to crawl after the chisel, she picked him up again.

"I do not ever want to see you here again, pup." Only then did he notice that her voice was trembling. "You cannot be down there. You . . ." She dragged him up the half-finished steps. "You once mocked me for the existence of those stairs, no?"

"I am no longer mocking."

"But you should be!" she exclaimed, dropping him against the wall and looming over him. "You should not find such an utterly irrelevant task stimulating."

"It is not for stimulation," he said without looking at her. "It is for occupation. For giving the hands something to do so that the mind does not torment you. Is that not what it is for?"

"Stop!"

Achilles twitched.

"Stop, I say." She audibly breathed in. "I do not want you to understand what it is for. Henry, you . . ." For a moment, there was a look of sheer terror in her usually so composed face. "Henry?"

No reaction.

"Please speak to me, Henry."

No reaction.

She inhaled again, with even greater strain. "It is not a task for a warrior of the mind. The stairs."

"Achilles is not a warrior of the mind."

"But you are."

Achilles looked at her, bewildered. "That makes no sense," he said. "I am Achilles. I am . . ."

"You are he who does not quit!" exclaimed Kismet in a strained voice. "You must not waste yourself. Please, Henry, do not waste yourself." She dragged her talon across the floor. "You . . . You must remember. Eventually, you must. You will." Had he not known better, he would have thought she was begging. "Your virtue. Your spirit. Your . . . self."

"My . . . self?"

"Yourself!" exclaimed Kismet. "Yourself, who is proud and relentless. Who is cunning and brave and unrelentingly hopeful! Who believed that he could tackle anything that was deemed impossible! Who would never condone pining in meaningless idleness! Is that not what you told me?"

Achilles stared at the floor. "I am a warrior of the mind?" was all he asked.

"You are," she hissed. "You have always been, and you must always remain one."

"Fine," said Achilles. "But a warrior of the mind knows when to quit."

"You must never quit," she said with unrelenting emphasis. "You must never—"

"You are right," he cut her off. "I must not quit because my labor is eternal. Is that what happened?" He looked up suddenly. "Is that where I am? For my hubris, have I been condemned to battle for all eternity? Am I in Tartarus?"

Kismet stared at him with her mouth ajar. "No," she said hesitantly. "Not you, pup. You are not condemned. You are . . . lost," she concluded after a pause. "Within yourself and in the world."

"Where is the difference?"

"The difference is that you will find a way out," she declared. "In due time, you will. I shall not entertain any claims to the contrary. And until then . . ." She pulled him up determinedly. "I have something else that we may do. Something more befitting a warrior of the mind."

***

Log 18175 Log -

Pawns and kings move almost the same: one square at a time. How is the Pawn the least valuable piece then, while the capture of the King makes the game?

Maybe because pawns cannot move back . . . and one who cannot move back is insignificant, a lost cause. One who cannot move . . . look back, one who can not ever right where he has once gone wrong—there is nothing anyone can do for him anymore. Not even the most powerful queen, as hard as she may try. Even she cannot force a pawn back. Nobody can. Nobody can force me

When I asked Kismet for the difference between pawn and king, she stared at me oddly, then laughed. You laughed, despite there not being anything funny about the question. Their move set is almost identical. How is it fair for one to hold so much more power than the other?

I never thought chess could be so much fun. I've seen Vikus play it occasionally, although I always mocked him for it. Forgive me for laughing. I wish I could ask you for forgiveness. I wish I could play with you. If you would even play with someone like me.

The game can truly consume you. It stimulates deep thinking and fully occupies your mind, so I implored Kismet to keep playing until we could barely sit up from exhaustion. Forgive me for keeping you up. Have I inconvenienced you? I did not mean to be a burden

Perhaps I should go back to play by myself. It may be even more consuming if I am compelled to come up with moves for two players. Although we should really do something about that one broken rook. It has fallen and broken at some point, and now the tip is missing. Perhaps I can make a new one.

***

"Henry, put that book away and sleep."

His pencil gouged the page until the paper bore the marks of his rage, leaving behind spirals that grew more distinct with each stroke. Around and around and around . . .

"You dropped this earlier," she continued, indicating a stack of papers on her right. "Were you not once so possessive over these log entries? And now you scatter the pages like they are worthless."

Around and around . . . The pencil disrupted the established pattern, creating a jagged and fierce point, then continued to trace zigzags that started small but grew ever larger, much like the sharp edges of a blade.

"Henry, I am talking to you."

The pencil's tip violently ripped a lengthy tear through the page.

". . . Achilles?"

His hand twitched, and the pencil veered away from the paper. "What?"

"Did we not mean to go to bed?" she asked. "Earlier, when we were playing, did we not agree that we were both too tired to continue?"

He slowly lowered the book. "Forgive me for keeping you up," he mumbled, casting his eye down. "If I was in any way bother—"

"Oh, pup, be still," she cut him off. "If you had been bothering me, I would have long kicked you out."

Achilles clenched his jaw. "But would you? How can I trust that you would have?" He dug his nails into the fabric of his pants, allowing his hair to fall into his face and obstruct his view, and desperately fought the lump of panic that had formed at the back of his throat. "I will leave if I am bothering you. Perhaps I should—"

"Will you at last be still!" Kismet hissed. "You are not . . . You have never once bothered me, and that is the truth. Not even when you initially came here." Kismet laughed quietly, sinking onto her haunches. "I did my best to pretend like you were bothering me, but you were . . ." She paused for a moment, then sighed. "Oh, pup, you were the first ray of light I saw after a decade of pitch-darkness. And naturally, I hissed, squinted, and recoiled from you for a while. Yet you would not cease shining upon me, and so . . . And so I have, against my best efforts, grown fond of the light that I once told myself I do not need again."

Achilles stared up at her with a bewildered expression. "And now that I no longer have any light to shine upon you, I am only a dead weight," he concluded.

"Be still." He cried out when she smacked the top of his head. "If you are here, there are things to do. To teach you." She scraped a claw along the floor. "I will gladly teach you anything you like, as long as it is within my power. I just . . . never thought you might be interested in chess. We can play again tomorrow . . . or is there somewhere else you have to be?"

"I don't have any battles tomorrow."

"Excellent. You should not fight so soon after that injury anyway." She ignored his eye-roll and instead dropped the stack of tattered papers she had brought into his lap. "There are still these. Take care not to lose them."

Achilles looked down at the pages and recoiled. "Those are not mine." He swatted them away and scooted back until his back met the wall. He knew exactly which logs those were.

Kismet looked at him with so much sorrow that he almost felt it in his own heart. "Pup . . ."

"Toss them back out if you want to do me a favor," he hissed, turning to press his forehead into the cool stone. "Get them away from me."

Kismet remained quiet, and Achilles perfectly perceived that she had no intent to heed his request.

"No, what are you—!"

"What you cannot, so apparently." His nails dug into the pencil as he violently dragged it across the paper until one could barely make out the words. The words he had so foolishly written so long ago that he . . .

I have yet to tell him. Why, you ask? Well, he hasn't bothered to show his ass in this place for an eternity, so it was impossible.

Oh, but now I possess the same ability, you know? To see without my eyes. The power of this threshold is truly overwhelming, to be honest. Nevertheless, I have succeeded! Death, I have achieved it!

The revolting, pathetic, vile words.

I accomplished what you asked of me! I ventured forth and defeated that threshold—farewell, rock bottom! Is this an achievement that will matter to you? You said that my achievements would always matter to you, no?

"Henry, your injury!"

He remained unfazed, even by the blood oozing through the newly applied bandage.

Are you proud of me?

Specks of blood stained the tattered paper, and as he tore the wretched pages apart, Achilles screamed.

Please be proud of me. I hope with all my heart that you are.

"There!" he pushed the pieces toward Kismet with disgust. "Now you may throw it all away like the worthless garbage it is!"

"It was not worthless . . . at the time."

All he did was pull his legs to his chest and bury his face in his folded arms to avoid looking at her. "Get it out of my sight before I determine that it's worth the effort to burn it."

Kismet was silent for a long time; all he heard was occasional shuffling. Some five minutes must have passed when she spoke again. "You . . . don't look so good."

Achilles looked up.

"How long has it been since you took a bath? Or cut your hair? Isn't it hindering in the arena?"

His fingers flew up to feel the crusted tips of his hair, which would soon reach the middle of his back. He usually tied it together, but . . .

"What about shaving? You're on track to have a beard in no time."

His fingertips found his chin next, and even though he realized that she was trying to be lighthearted, he thought maybe she was right. Then again, why should he bother? There was no one to see him here.

"Well, we can discuss this tomorrow," said Kismet after a while. "We are both tired. Will you be able to sleep now?"

Achilles moved not an inch.

"We can do something else if you do not feel like sleeping yet."

His gaze flew up, and he stared at her face, dimly illuminated by the torch he had put up for writing, suddenly feeling another surge of shame. You take, and take, and take.

"I'm good," he mumbled without looking at Kismet. He would not be a burden. He would not make himself into a burden on her too, not anymore, not—

"I really don't mind, you know?"

Achilles' head flew up.

"Even now. I already told you why. And really, this . . ." She sighed. "This is but a place for those outcast by society to spend the rest of their lives in peace. And together is better than alone . . . so I have found."

***

Log . . . I don't know

Today, I stumbled upon something that left me intrigued—something that I feel holds significant meaning. There was a time when I had so many names that I found it difficult to introduce myself. Now I struggle to identify with a single one. Once upon a time, I was the . . . Death Rider.

The scroll with the prophecy . . . Kismet found it in my waterproof container. She asked about it, and I . . . it was about me, no? I believe it was. I remember being called by that name. I remember the lines: "Darkness, loneliness, and pain / Endure it all and reap the gain."

I wanted to reap the gain. I aimed to conquer darkness, escape loneliness, and erase pain. Although I'm powerful now, I am also feeble and desolate, separated from the world that I once loved so. There's no connection left to bind me, and pain is all-consuming. What is it like to not feel pain

I wanted to reap the gain, but perhaps it wasn't worth it. Perhaps none of this was worth it. Perhaps "whatever it takes" took too much.

Was I wrong? Was I never the Death Rider in the first place? Was it all a coincidence? For, if I was am the Death Rider . . . how can I be a Death Rider when there is no Death? There is no Death, not for me. Not anymore. Not for as hard as I try. There is . . . no Death. And there never will be.

How much time has even passed? Can anyone tell me how much time has passed since . . . since when since it was better. Since everything was better. My memory fails me. At times, I look at the old tally and consider it a measure of time elapsed. However, it is outdated, for I have not made a single tally mark ever since it all has been better.

Perhaps I needn't know how much time elapsed after all. It hardly matters. I needn't know. If I were to find out, it may shatter the illusion of an endless cycle of torment, madness, and mind-numbing times spent gazing at a blank wall, questioning whether it's worth pounding my head against it until the agony subsides.

There are days when I feel like it's bearable, days when I can spar, play chess with Kismet and laugh, listen to her stories, and properly savor victories and successes . . . and then there are days when I feel like if I move a single muscle, I will fall into an endless, silent, dark abyss. When I just want to be a corpse.

I was once so scared of falling, but on those days, it is hard to resist the temptation to just . . . fall. To fall, knowing that nobody will be there to catch me. It is the most wretched, lonesome death of all . . . a death befitting one like me.

On occasion, I perch on that pillar and endeavor to recapture the feeling of flying. Alas, it evades me. I may spread my arms and pretend I have wings—golden wings like Icarus—but whenever I try to recall the sensation of flying, my wings darken and decay into ashes. Without my wings, I feel so small. Without my wings, I am not whole, as if a vital part of me is gone. As though I am shattered glass, and no matter how diligently someone tries, I am impossible to mend completely because a fragment is forever lost.

I can barely count how many times, in my dreams, I've flown and then fallen, for my wings had deserted me. It is such a persistent nightmare that I can hardly believe it still scares me. But it does, and with each occurrence, I find myself longing to purge it from my mind, but this would be futile as it would just resurface the very next night.

All I want after such a dream is to go back to the lake, to sit there, and listen. To wait . . . I think. For someone. Am I waiting for someone? I am waiting for someone, I think. Someone . . . someone who isn't coming.