Some might find the idea of a sixteen-hour walk absurd. Especially a walk that involves dragging a travel box behind you, with a duffle bag containing a seventy-pound doll strapped to your back.
And they would be right.
Why did I walk all the way from Binah to Tiphereth—over 81 miles, mind you—and why do I walk almost everywhere? Simple: Stockholm syndrome.
It all began when I was fourteen. I had just gotten my first debit card, and with it, I discovered my very own Ring of Gyges—ridesharing. The freedom! Like a man suddenly made invisible, I abused that power. I used those services to visit friends, to go from the houseboat to my aunt's place, to pick up food, to hit the fighting game locals. I used them when I couldn't be bothered to walk home from school, and for no better reason than just to see something interesting in Binah.
Then, like the mythical ring crumbling to dust, it was all gone. My money. I groaned, moaned, cried, lamented, cursed myself—to walk, always walk—and for the past two and a half years, I've never used anything but my own two feet.
And now? Well, it seems like my conviction might be rewarded. Thanks to my [WITCHCRAFT], it seems there's a chance I could be free from this burden, someday.
Of course, I could be free now if I just gave in to [Hjálparhönd]'s demand to wear the straightjacket at all times. I'd float everywhere, effortlessly.
But I can't wear that thing everywhere. It's like trying to wear a suit made of deer meat in the woods. It doesn't just shield you—it attracts attention.
This led [Hjálparhönd] to agonize over how to protect me without that protection attracting worse threats.
It was during this discussion that the topic of invisibility came up. She questioned why I hadn't given myself any abilities tied to invisibility.
The answer is simple: just as my bank account couldn't support a daily ride-share addiction, my [VangaVeltur] couldn't manifest every convenient ability I could imagine.
Honestly, just making it so [Hjálparhönd] was able to manifest and manipulate hands—let alone dismiss them—was enough to drain me. It's one thing to create a concept from scratch, another to pull it from something already existing.
Though despite my claims, it's not that [DOLLS] can't gain more concepts over time.
[MEGIDO ARC] and her [MAGIC] are proof of that.
[Hjálparhönd] had brought up the Ring of Gyges as an example of an item that could grant invisibility. But when she learned it was a mere myth, her mood soured. I managed to distract her with videos of the invisibility shields I'd seen online.
Speaking of which, it turns out those shields have become more accessible since I first came across them. There are even tutorials on how to make them from flat-screen TVs.
Unfortunately, we didn't have the time—or the [VangaVeltur]—for such a project.
Maybe we can get to working on that after our mountain retreat.
I'm confident we won't encounter any [HULDUFÓLK], so we can focus on training, and maybe even farming some [VangaVeltur] from our host.
Ah, I feel like a predator making it's way to a watering hole to hunt for prey.
Speaking of predators, I managed to rifle through BSA's phone to gather more information about the [HULDUFÓLK] in Binah.
I say this, but I haven't learned much about them as [HULDUFÓLK], only about their operations as 'individuals.'
BSA and his cohorts aren't just bloodsuckers—they're loan sharks. They trap people in hopeless debt, then drain them dry with exorbitant fees and interest.
The scum of the earth.
The worst part? It's not just about the money. In fact if it were only about lining their pockets, I wouldn't be as vexed as I am.
It's not enough to bleed their victims dry of currency. No, they drain something much more precious—blood, and then they turn those drained bodies into [GHOULS], soulless husks, though I would almost prefer they were soulless. A [GHOUL]'s body keeps the soul trapped within, and these creatures use them to harvest more blood without putting themselves at risk.
It's vile. It's repulsive. It's an affront to the part of me that can't stand the thought of sending [DOLLS] out to fight on their own.
And the victims, oh the victims.
How could they let this happen to themselves?
It's one thing to fall into generational debt at the hands of humans trying to get a leg up in the rat race.
But it's a whole other thing to allow yourself to end up a mindless slave golem at the hands of these things.
Don't we humans have the uncanny valley instinct to protect ourselves from things that look too much like us, but aren't?
My thoughts spiral as I continue my journey, the last twenty minutes spent stomping and brooding.
... ...
Isn't it strange how quickly a person's mood can change?
I'm talking about myself and the flood of joy that hit me when I reached the cabin.
From the outside, it's perfect. The foundation's reinforced stone, offering stability and thermal mass. The building itself is made of timber, sustainable, durable, and insulated naturally. The roof? Metal, with rainwater collection channels. It faces south, with solar panels positioned just right to optimize energy collection.
The cabin is surrounded by stone fences, like something you'd find in the countryside of Europe. Not just for aesthetics, but also for security and seclusion.
But what excites me the most? The potential. I can already see the hidden workshop, concealed compartments, the ideal space for delicate work. The thick walls and natural structure promise privacy, while the fence adds a sense of safety.
Even the layout of the land itself suggests hidden opportunities, with natural cover from the trees and the isolation that ensures no prying eyes. I can almost picture how modifications could be made to transform this humble cabin into something more—a true sanctuary for my work.
They're just so many things about the place that fill me with glee. It's to the point that I've been frolicking around the place and I've been thinking up renovations and modifications like I've already been handed the place.
The sheer potential is intoxicating but I have to exercise self control.
After all, I'm dealing with a human. He may seem sketchy, but it's possible I've been reading patterns that aren't there, drawing connections that only serve me.
For now, I knock on the door and introduce myself.
Knock Knock Knock
A moment later, I'm greeted by a young man—nervous, with a widow's peak, a 5 o'clock shadow, and heavy bags under his eyes. His eyes shift around, avoiding mine, and he's sweating. Not a lot, but enough to notice.
I can already tell. Not alarm bells, no—just a celebratory chime ringing in my mind.
I fight back the urge to burst into joy and begin adapting a persona created for the purpose of anonymity.
"Yo. Yo. Yo. The name's Paul Jinguji. I'm the guy you spoke to over the phone."
I go out of my way to invade his personal space and emote exaggeratedly.
This Paul Jinguji, is a persona I had developed when I started looking for potential mountain retreats. He's overly informal, disregards personal space, has hair that reeks of the overly yellow dye that drapes it and wears deeply black sunglasses that blot out his eyes. His clothes are just as obnoxious-loud, patterned shirts that clash horribly with cargo pants and bright sneakers. He looks every bit the eccentric outsider and appears to have no serious intentions of enjoying life in the mountains.
He's the type of bastard who people go to theaters to see die in a slasher movie.
The man shifts uncomfortably then offers a weak smile.
"Uh, yeah, Right, Mr. Jinguji, was it?"
"Paul! Paul Jinguji, my man! No need for all this 'Mister' business."
I clap him on the shoulder, making him flinch slightly before continuing.
"So! This is the place, huh? Nice, real nice. How the hell did you manage to afford this? You kill the previous owner and steal it or something?"
It's projection. Pure projection.
I'm trying to get a rise out of him.
And I'm hoping he bites.
The man clears his throat, darting his eyes around as to not look me in the face.
"Uh, no. I would never kill anybody. I had this place built with my saving. I actually used life insurance payout to get it built."
"Oh and uh, people don't come around here often right?"
"Uh… no. No one comes around her. It's pretty isolated."
"Great, Excellent even! Just how I like it. Privacy's one of the greatest privileges you know."
I put my arm around his shoulder and whisper,
"Can't have people sticking their noses where they don't belong right?"
I wink knowingly before letting go of him.
The man chuckles nervously, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Yeah, uh… you wanna come inside?"
I clap my hands together, grinning wide.
"Of course! Lead the way my man, it's your house."
Ah, this is just perfect.
Every cell in my body is ready to burst out laughing like a child.
But as we enter, I'm reminded just how quickly moods can change.
After all my initial impressions of this poor unfortunate soul have been rudely subserviated.
I expected a paranoid hermit, someone holed up in the mountains to avoid the world. But instead, it's this.
This whole place is dripping with it—every corner seems steeped in strange ritualistic symbols, and artifacts that scream supernatural. The air is thick with incense and the faint, must scent of old parchment.
Of all the hobbies, of all the interests it just had to be the occult.
It's repulsive.
It's utterly repulsive.
A part of me just wants to crush his skull for raising my hopes and then subjecting me to such nonsense.
His only saving grace is that nothing here is truly supernatural. For now, I have no justification for ending him. All I can do is simmer with this growing violence, confined to a building that has been painted and littered to resemble filth—yet there's not a speck of real substance to it.
It's the kind of violence reserved for the people who struggle paycheck to paycheck with no hopes of acquiring a home for themselves, are forced to watch some flippant idiot desecrate a perfectly good house for some asinine, 'quirky' renovation project.
Oh Destiny.
Oh Fate.
Please.
Let this man—whose name I couldn't care less to remember—be the one, with his own two hands, who unwittingly pulls the trigger on his own demise at my hands.
And yet nothing happens.
Nothing ever happened.
Not when I cranked the volume on my music until it felt like the walls themselves would collapse under the sound.
Not when I never bothered to turn off the lights. I left them on like some careless, spoiled child, as if to spite him in the most trivial way possible.
Not when I let his pots burn black as charred sacrifices to some forgotten god of indifference.
Not when I forced my way into his room, demanded to sit through a game I had no interest in, the low drone of sports commentary slowly poisoning the air between us. The bastard didn't even flinch. He just let me sit there, barely acknowledging my presence, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
This man just wouldn't retaliate.
This man… this stubborn, maddeningly calm man... he just wouldn't retaliate. No angry words, no violent outbursts. He let me invade his space, destroy his routine, make a mockery of his peace. And for the life of me, I couldn't understand it. Was he a saint? Some kind of Zen master, untouched by the irritation I was desperately trying to provoke?
Nothing. Not a single ripple in the calm of his soul.
It only made me more determined.
To prod the hornet's nest.