The child trembled, frozen in terror, hiding within the tall grass.
The voice he had just heard echoed again — sharp, suspicious, almost playful:
> "Who's the potato thief sneaking into my field?!"
He held his breath. Every second felt stretched into eternity.
The steps came closer, steady, deliberate — one, two, three…
Then the voice began to count:
> "Two hundred and thirty-one… two hundred and thirty-two… two hundred and thirty-three…"
The child's heart pounded like thunder in his chest.
When the stranger reached his spot, a shadow loomed over him.
Without warning, a wooden stick struck his head with a dull crack.
Pain shot through him, and he screamed —
but at that very instant, something strange burst forth from his skull.
A writhing insect — a distorted dragonfly with glistening, malformed wings —
fluttered out and vanished into the air.
Then… silence.
The whispers that had plagued his mind were gone.
For the first time since entering this cursed world, his thoughts were his own.
He was free.
The boy who had struck him stepped back, staring in awe.
Then, suddenly, he burst into laughter.
> "Ha! I really thought you were a dangerous thief stealing my potatoes! Sorry about the bump!"
The protagonist remained silent at first, confused, dazed.
After a moment, he managed to whisper:
> "Where… are we?"
The other child — around ten years old, with skin as dark as the soil beneath them and eyes glimmering with a strange intelligence — grinned.
> "We're in the Immutable Theatre, southwest of the Kingdom of the Yellow King.
You're standing on Master Dooran's land — this is his field.
To leave, you have to walk exactly four hundred sixty-nine and a half steps.
Oh, right! I haven't introduced myself.
I'm Rastaban. And you?"
The protagonist hesitated.
His lips trembled as he spoke:
> "I… I don't know anymore."
Rastaban raised an eyebrow.
> "You don't know? Huh. Must've hit you harder than I thought.
Well, let's get you to Master Dooran — he'll know what to do."
As they walked, the protagonist observed him carefully.
There was something both comforting and unsettling about Rastaban.
Then, after a while, the young boy broke the silence:
> "Your skin's pretty pale…
Haven't seen many like you around here."
The protagonist didn't answer.
The question lingered in the air — heavy, almost symbolic.
Perhaps in his old world, such words would have carried another meaning.
But here, in this strange realm ruled by madness and forgotten gods,
it was only a reminder of how far from home he truly was.
And as they continued through the endless gray field,
the boy felt the faintest shiver run through his body —
the feeling that, though the whispers were gone,
something else was beginning to wake within him.