On a winter night, fine snowflakes drifted outside the window, densely covering it. The flames in the fireplace burned quietly, exuding warmth, while the hot tea on the table emitted a comforting aroma.

The noise of the television alternated with the peaceful sound of the fireplace, allowing Bologue’s tense nerves to relax, and he became drowsy.

Just as he was about to fully enter dreamland, a sound of footsteps awakened Bologue. Opening his eyes, he saw an old woman carrying a plate of freshly baked cookies come to his side.

"Would you like one?" she asked.

Bologue nodded, reached out to take one, and bit off a corner, the sweetness flooding his mouth.

"Delicious," Bologue said.

The old woman smiled and then sat down beside Bologue. The two nestled on the sofa, facing a black-and-white television that played unfamiliar programs while the host droned on about trivial matters.

The clock on the wall ticked gently, producing a crisp ticking sound.

For the first time in a while, Bologue felt a sense of inner tranquility. Wrapped in a soft blanket, compared to the days he’d spent in prison, everything Bologue was experiencing now filled him with ecstatic joy.

Then came the void.

Bologue felt like a kite with a broken string, swept into the sky, wandering aimlessly and homeless.

Listening to the slightly heavy breathing beside him, Bologue even thought that without the old woman’s help, he might be huddling in a cold alley somewhere, or perhaps squeezing into a church corner for the night... Bologue didn’t know where he should go.

It sounded ironic; Bologue yearned for freedom for so long that when he actually obtained it, he was overwhelmed with panic.

"How have these years been?" the old woman asked.

"Not bad," Bologue thought for a moment, then emphasized again, "Not bad, food and accommodation provided."

Bologue then countered, "How about you?"

"Well... just the life of an ordinary person, I suppose."

The old woman briefly recounted her years, finding them mundane, while Bologue listened with great interest.

"Am I boring you?" the old woman noticed Bologue’s shift.

"Not at all, I’m not bored," Bologue shook his head, "I enjoy listening to you... How are the others?"

"Most of them are dead."

The old woman said, "You know, they were all drunkards, gamblers, even if they earned a fortune, they ended up penniless, let alone living well."

"Sounds quite regrettable."

"There’s nothing regrettable; it’s the life they chose... just like my own choice."

Bologue pondered; from the old woman’s words, he learned about her life, just as he anticipated: endless good deeds, until her twilight years, waiting for peace to arrive.

"You’re unexpectedly self-sacrificing," Bologue said.

"I just realized I’m an ordinary person, so instead of living mundanely, why not try to create some value," the old woman said, "this gives my heart peace."

Bologue didn’t continue, "Value, huh?"

They fell silent for a moment before the old woman suddenly asked.

"Have you created any value, Bologue?"

"I don’t know."

"Are you planning to create any value?"

"I haven’t thought about it."

The old woman smiled, her demeanor kindly resembling a sculpture in a church. She slowly stood up and grabbed a nearby cane.

"Do you have a place to stay?"

Bologue shook his head, "No, I don’t."

"You’re truly destitute, not only in material terms but spiritually as well."

The old woman paused, then summarized, "You’re as penniless as they were."

Bologue smiled, thinking to himself, "But I won’t die like those folks."

"If you wish, you can sleep here, on this sofa, how about it?" the old woman patted the sofa.

Bologue naturally adjusted himself, then lay flat; the sofa was a bit small, his feet stretching out awkwardly, neck strained against the armrest. Bologue tried several positions before curling up on the sofa.

"Not bad."

Bologue enjoyed the sofa and nodded, "Not bad."

The old woman left, and Bologue nestled into the sofa, gradually drifting into slumber. He dreamed of a mist-laden battlefield where a terrifying monster slowly devoured him.

...

The First Seat, mouth full of blood, teeth packed with meat scraps, his broken body twisted in a grotesque growth of flesh and bone. Sections of malformed white bones protruded from his wounds, striking the ground, propping up the warped flesh.

At this moment, the First Seat resembled a giant spider, ready for its next meal.

Bologue lay within the First Seat’s cage of bones, his gaze losing focus. The Supreme Secret Sword, infused with the Seeker of Glory’s power, inflicted a wound upon his chest that seemed incurable, even the Undying Body unable to counteract it momentarily.

His throat trembled slightly, and with hollow eyes gazing at the sky, he attempted to speak but only emitted meaningless sounds, blood rushing up to overflow from his throat.

"Drown in your dreams."

The First Seat raised the Sword of Confession once more; he no longer aimed to orchestrate a grand Confession Song but sought to consume Bologue’s flesh completely.