The figure half-lying on the mountain path looked wearily at the huge stone that had fallen to the base of the mountain, wanting to lie on one side and take a brief lazy respite.
But the chain and shackles, engraved with inscriptions, resonated and vibrated, like a red-hot branding iron, bringing pain that reached deep into the soul.
Suddenly, the prisoner let out a low, muffled grunt, his facial contours twitching slightly, and he could only curse a few words in anger before turning around and dragging the heavy chains back.
"It never ends!"
"So, are you willing to talk now? Sinner Sisyphus..."
The calm, soothing voice came from the hazy fog, a young man with golden eyes and hair, wearing a loose white robe, stood at the starting point at the bottom of the hill, arms crossed.
"Talk about what?" Sisyphus, dragging the shackles and chains, blinked innocently.
