7 — The First Sleep
The first complete
meal was a genuine event. It wasn't a cinematic moment with sudden
orchestral swells or a miraculous golden glow emanating from the
interface. It was simply—a dish. A truly good dish. Prepared with a
level of care and a technical seriousness that radiated from every
one of Melo’s movements as he worked over his small iron pot.
Melo had worked for a
full hour, a concentrated silence falling over him as he added
ingredients, tasted, and readjusted the seasoning with the precision
of a master alchemist. The stew had transformed into something far
more complex than its initial version—layers of flavor revealing
themselves progressively, like geological strata unfolding on the
tongue. Each spoonful was a discovery, hitting deep notes of salt,
umami, and a strange, cooling aftertaste that felt like mint against
the back of the throat.
[Item
Consumed: Fortifying Creeper Stew — Version 2]
[+20% Psyché
regeneration (3 hours)]
[+15 HP Stock]
[+8% Resistance to
mental corruption]
[Hunger: Dormant]
[Psyché: 71% → 74%]
Three points in one
go. Vincent noted it immediately, the three black holes of his mask
contracting slightly in a mimicry of a squint. Three points. Just
from food. That’s not a buff; that’s a game-changer. It’s a
massive efficiency gain for a passive stat.
— So? — asked
Melo. He was watching Vincent eat with an expression that might have
been called nervous if Melo were the kind of person who let stress
show. — Is it alright? I mean, for real?
— Yeah. Really.
— Do you notice the
difference with the first version? I added a pinch of Powdered
Crystal to the spices. It’s supposed to amplify the synergy with
the Spores—
— Yeah, —
interrupted Vincent, then paused, slightly surprised by his own
voice. He wasn't used to interrupting. He wasn't used to speaking at
all lately. — It’s good, Melo. Really good. Best thing I’ve had
since... well, since this nightmare started.
Melo smiled. Not the
professional smile, not the "everything is fine" mask he
wore for the world. A content smile. Genuinely happy. And something
in Vincent—something small, fragile, and starved for air—noted
the difference.
They talked for a
while after that, their conversation drifting without a specific
goal. Melo explained his class with a disarming openness—the
cooking mechanics, the intricate ingredient combinations, and the
musical buffs he could weave with his harp.
— The
Troubadour-Sutler is a class that exists solely so that others can
survive, — he said, stirring the remains of the stew distractedly.
— I don't do anything by myself. No real damage output. No solo
survival in hostile zones. I’m hard-coded to be in a group. I’m
the glue, I guess.
He said it simply, as
a matter of fact, without a trace of bitterness or self-pity. Vincent
nodded, but something was ticking in the back of his brain—a
question he hadn't asked yet. What about the sleep? Why is it
mandatory? What happens during those seven hours? But he didn't
ask. Not yet. It was too early, and Vincent had learned—slowly,
painfully—that sometimes you had to wait for the information to
come to you.
Waiting. Passive
strategy. I’m optimizing long-term intelligence gathering.
That’s what he told himself, at least.
The "night"
arrived—or whatever passed for it in this world of eternal
twilight. Vincent’s internal timer indicated that about seven hours
had elapsed since their encounter. Melo began to pack his things with
an efficiency that changed the atmosphere. He was no longer cheerful;
he was calm. But it was a different kind of calm than his usual
relaxation. It was almost—ritualistic.
— Right, — he
said, placing his iron pot neatly beside his bag. — I’m going to
sleep.
Vincent watched him,
unmoving on his rock. — Now?
— Yeah. I... I need
to sleep. It’s... He stopped for a second. Just one second. And in
that brief flicker of time, something crossed his face—something
fast, controlled, and intentionally suppressed. — It’s a mechanic
of my class. Sleep, for me, isn't optional like it is for you. It’s
mandatory. Midnight to seven a.m. It happens every cycle, without
exception.
Vincent blinked. —
Every night?
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
— Every night. And
it’s—instantaneous. Like, I fall asleep and I wake up at seven,
all at once. No dreams, no transition. Just , asleep.
, awake. — He shrugged, a bit too nonchalantly. —
It’s a bit weird at first, but you get used to it.
— And... while you
sleep? — Vincent hesitated. — Who watches your back?
Melo looked at him,
and for a second—just a second—something passed through his eyes
that was neither a smile nor determination. It was hope. Pure, raw
hope.
— I was hoping you
would do it?
Of course I’m
going to do it. Obviously. That’s what group leaders do. That’s
what Watchdog Man does. I protect my teammate. He’s MY
teammate. This is MY group. No one else is going to watch over him
better than me.
— Yeah. — Vincent
settled into a guard pose—knees bent, back straight, hands flat on
his knees. — Go ahead. I’ll keep watch.
Melo smiled—that
signature benevolent smile—and lay down on the spongy ground with
an ease that suggested he had done this hundreds of times. —
Thanks, Vincent.
And then he closed his
eyes. And then he slept. Not gradually. Not with a yawn. He closed
his eyes, and at that very instant—the EXACT same second—his body
relaxed completely. Every muscle let go at once, as if someone had
flipped a master switch.
[Melodream:
Mandatory Sleep — Active]
[Duration: 7:00]
[Wake-up
scheduled: 07:00]
[Active Absorption: In progress]
Vincent stared at the
notification. Then he stared at Melo. What
did that mean, "Active Absorption"? He noted the question.
He tucked it away in a mental drawer, calm and methodical, and he
continued his vigil.
The first few hours
were quiet. The forest breathed—that slow, heavy respiration that
perhaps wasn't biological, but was close enough that Vincent’s
brain treated it as such. The trails of color drifted through his
olfactory field: mostly blue, no red, occasionally touches of green
when a passive creature approached, sensed him, and fled. He watched.
He protected.
This is leadership.
Pure, unadulterated leadership.
And then, around the
third or fourth hour, Melo moved. Not much. A small twitch of the
fingers, a slight shift in position. As if, even in an
"instantaneous" sleep, a part of him was resisting. Vincent
approached—just a meter—and listened.
Melo was murmuring
something. Sounds. Not words, at least not at first. Low,
inarticulate sounds that paced through the silence for a long time
before syllables began to form, clumsily. Vincent understood nothing
on the first pass. Nor the second. But in the hour that followed, the
sounds became a single word.
— ...sorry...
One word. Only one.
Repeated three times, then silence. Vincent didn't move. He didn't
get any closer. He just... listened. I’m not going to wake him.
I’m not going to pretend I didn't hear it. I’ll just... listen.
For now. He tucked that question into the same mental drawer as
"Active Absorption." He placed them side by side. And he
waited.
At exactly 07:00, Melo
opened his eyes. His eyelids lifted—slowly, calmly—and his gaze
cleared instantly, as if the switch had been flipped back the other
way. Present. Alert.
[Melodream:
Mandatory Sleep — Completed]
[Psyché: 100%]
[Status:
Optimal]
[Absorption: Complete]
One hundred percent.
Vincent stared at the notification. Then at Melo. Then back at the
notification. One hundred percent. What was he at before he slept?
I didn't check. Dammit.
Melo sat up and
stretched—a very human, very normal gesture—and smiled. — Good
morning. How are you holding up?
— Fine. — Vincent
hesitated. — Did you... sleep well?
— Perfectly, as
always. — Melo stood up, immediately starting to pull out his pots
and ingredients, his morning routine installed in less than thirty
seconds. — Mandatory sleep is... honestly, it’s one of the few
positive sides of my class. Seven hours of perfect, guaranteed sleep.
He said it with a
smile, but his hands—those hands that were cutting, mixing, and
adjusting—did not tremble. No hesitation. He knows exactly what
he’s doing. The thought came without warning. Sharp, cold,
precise. He knows what "Active Absorption" means. He
knows why his Psyché hits a hundred percent. And he isn't telling
me.
Vincent looked at his
own hands—those waxen claws—and noted, for the first time,
something he hadn't seen before.
[Psyché:
74% → 73%]
One point. Only one.
Dropped since when? Since Melo’s sleep? He didn't know. But he
noted it.
Breakfast was
excellent—a kind of porridge enriched with crunchy seeds that gave
a +5% XP boost for an hour and +10 HP Stock. Melo prepared it while
singing softly, his good mood returned. Vincent ate in silence,
observing. Melo looked happy. Truly happy. As if he had just slept a
thousand years and woken up sated.
Because he did his
job.
Vincent swallowed the
last spoonful and nodded. — So. Are we hunting today?
— Of course! —
Melo pulled out his harp, checking the strings with the attention of
a professional musician, and stood up. — Let's go.
And they set off, side
by side, into the grey light that was neither morning nor evening,
but simply the place where they lived now.