The main issue with this system was that it barely regulated anything. The alcoholic continued to search through the city for the presence of the scepter. He looked in the most crowded places, keeping an eye out for any butterfly; nothing worked. The night passed, and Alain invited him to his home.
The alcoholic drank his soup in silence by the slowly burning fire, looking around him. The dwelling was rustic. There were few supplies except for armor and a sword. He swallowed the large piece of floating bread and turned to Alain, who was adding small pieces of wood to the fire.
Like all villagers, he drank wine—water was tainted by the impure energy emanating near the demon border. They were connected to an empire, apparently, but it was very distant.
He heard laughter coming from other huts and glanced over. A minority of huts were lit, and villagers gathered in each other's houses in turn to conserve resources during the vigil. They were accompanied by the sounds of birds and wind.
It was a moment when the alcoholic was too tired to think or try to start a conversation. He just existed quietly, as he should. He endured even this foul soup.
And then, the enlightenment came—when he stopped seeking it.
Buried in his memories, when his third version was sick and possessed, he also saw.
That he had only been in a simulation.
Strangely, the news did not terrify him. A meteorite or a god could have killed him at any moment. A supernova wouldn't have given him time to react. He had always thought, deep down, that he was living in a simulation.
But living it meant saying that he had no chance of survival. His success would be siphoned off by another Rargnes—if the thing was somewhat related to Rargnes.
"Tell me," he asked, "how do you do it?"
Alain turned.
"For what?"
"To keep going, knowing you're going to die."
There was silence. The fire reflected Alain's face sharply.
"You don't need to think about everything. If I'm constantly thinking about the future, about having no chance, I won't do anything. I just leave my future to my future self and only take care of the present. I don't try to guess others' intentions—I know I'm powerless over them. Things just go on as I live and desire to live. As long as no one gets in my way, why would I think? I think about true problems, not demons-created ones."
He paused.
"You know, people want enemies. They like it; they like being able to yell, show their importance, and show themselves. To accept parts of themselves. You don't have to know the truth. You have to do what's best for you, and I know I was created to do what's best at every moment. None of my decisions are unthought of, but I don't argue with those who make the real decisions; I just follow them."
It seemed that saying things allowed them to understand themselves.
"I... I think I owe you an apology," Alain said, embarrassed. "Maybe I resented you too much because I didn't understand. It's said that a full stomach doesn't understand an empty stomach. The same may be true with thoughts: it must be such fatigue that it had to be balanced out with a few drinks. In the end, it was your choice; that's how you serve the king, and it's the fault of others if they take your drinks."
Alain dared not say more out of shame. Perhaps his persistence against him was just a way to create an enemy, to manipulate himself, to not have to think when he thought more than anyone else, no matter his condition.
The alcoholic nodded at these words. Even sitting, his giant size reached up to the ceiling.
"So... it's by not thinking about it rather than constantly thinking about it?"
That made sense. If one is tired of changing thoughts and plans, it must be that part of us indicated that it was just a futile waste of energy, which would jump to natural selection.
The rest of the meal ended in silence. He slept in Alain's bed, and the next day, as always in the king's domain, he would have already forgotten.
After all, he would be different, every moment, a different version, one stronger or weaker, one he killed with sports so that his internal empire survived from one way to another. He saw himself in society: bones imitated for buildings, veins for optimal routes of certain roads, and organization as the absolute master of the body.
If that were the case, was the apocalypse really a reflection of humanity? Something without nuances, without life?
The alcoholic fell asleep. He failed to find the scepter in the following days and was teleported back to the statue where Sengrar awaited him.