A day had passed.

During that time, I performed actions typical of living beings: eating, washing, excreting waste, and sleeping.

These mundane routines make up about 30% of human life, so there’s nothing particularly unsettling about them now.

Although it’s my first time directly experiencing such things, Rebecca’s memories made them surprisingly easy to manage.

Setting aside these trivialities, the place I currently reside in is a pitch-dark basement. From its structure, it seems to stretch wider than most cities.

Beyond this underground lair lies a grassland resembling a desert.

In the rainy season, grass grows, while in the dry season, all that remains are withered plants and drifting sand. The landscape includes deep canyons, carved over millennia.

This terrain reminds me of scenes from foreign films I once watched as a human—red sands, towering rock formations, layered cliffs, and a river winding between them.

And the centerpiece: a towering rocky mountain.

Scattered around it are small villages that serve as mere entry points, while the real settlement lies beneath the mountain itself.

I’d like to go out and see it for myself, but that seems impossible for now.

Hieronymus visited me in the morning to greet me but hasn’t returned since, leaving me with little to do.

Joanna, on the other hand, seems fully committed to tending to me, staying by my side like a devoted maid.

Last night was rather entertaining.

After I lay down in bed and fell asleep, she returned to her own room. There, she cleaned a long-neglected, murky mirror until it gleamed.

She then examined her face closely or practiced handstands, transitioning into push-ups. First with both hands, then one hand, and eventually even using her fingers—it was fascinating to watch.

After working up a slight sweat, Joanna left her room and went to a training ground where she called over someone who seemed to be an instructor.

There, she learned how to fight.

Whether it was due to her enhanced body or latent talent, she quickly picked up the instructor’s movements, mirroring them with remarkable precision.

By the end of the day, her progress was so noticeable that the instructor couldn’t resist asking about her origins.

Joanna responded with surprising joy.

“It’s thanks to Lady Rebecca’s blessing that I’ve become like this. I was once a half-dead, decrepit old woman.”

She proudly extended her hand to show the instructor. The spark of greed in his eyes was unmistakable.

“Lady Rebecca… Do you mean the one summoned during yesterday’s ritual?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”

However, Joanna refrained from boasting further and instead returned to her room. Judging by her lighthearted steps, she must have been quite pleased with herself.

I find it difficult to understand such feelings, but emotions aren’t something one understands—they’re something one experiences.

Who could ever truly comprehend my coldness?

Afterward, Joanna went to her room and slept, leaving me as the only one awake.

The following morning, Joanna came in first to bring me food, bathe me, and dress me properly. Then Hieronymus briefly visited again to greet me before leaving.

Ah.

I only realized it was morning because a bell rang six times within the underground city to signal the start of the day. Isn’t it risky to ring a bell in a place like this?

I suppose they know what they’re doing.

Maintaining a consistent sleep pattern is crucial for people’s well-being. In an environment like this, it must be important to announce the time accurately.

So, morning passed.

By the time the afternoon was well underway, I began to debate whether to step out of my room, driven by the creeping cold.

That’s when the door suddenly swung open, and a child walked in.

A small silver-haired girl entered, wearing neither a mask nor a hooded robe to cast shadows over her face. Her light shone brilliantly and powerfully, yet, oddly, it carried very little warmth.

How peculiar.

“So, you’re the great being Hieronymus has been hiding so carefully? I’m Hyungkeshni, a witch who appears as insignificant as I look.”

My attention was particularly drawn to the staff she held in one hand. It was a bizarre thing, appearing to be crafted from a human skull and spine.

It seemed real, not an imitation.

Given that she introduced herself as a witch, it wasn’t entirely surprising for her to wield such an eerie tool. While witches traditionally carried brooms in the stories I knew, perhaps in this world, staffs like hers are the standard magical equipment.

As she approached, Joanna stepped in front of me as if to shield me.

I tugged lightly on Joanna’s sleeve.

“Lady Rebecca?”
“Step aside.”
“Yes.”

Without a second’s hesitation, Joanna bowed her head and retreated. To be honest, her instant compliance felt unnerving—cultists are all the same.

I rose from the bed and walked toward the little witch. She was half a head shorter than me.

“Hello. I am Rebecca Rolf.”
“Oh! You’re capable of greetings? But how strange—that’s the name of the body you’re wearing, not your true name, is it?”

Her sharp eyes studied me intently. She looked like a little girl, but her tone and demeanor suggested someone far older.

Is she lying about her age?

Her appearance goes beyond simple anti-aging; still, for a witch, it’s not unbelievable.

In old fairy tales, witches were depicted as hunchbacked crones with warts on their faces. But as time passed, young maidens began to take their place in those stories.

“I need a name. So I use this body’s. Does it matter?”
“Of course, it matters. A name defines the essence of one’s being. Even if the body is destroyed, you don’t die because your essence is different.”

Can’t one live without a name?

A name is only necessary when others are present. If one is isolated, names become irrelevant—there’s no need to distinguish oneself from others.

It’s a concept born from the social nature of living beings.

In this world, names might hold a greater significance than I understand. I still have much to learn.

“If you wish to know the name of my true form beyond this body, how should I tell you?”

I remember my name from when I was human. I can even read it. But strangely, I can’t seem to say it aloud or write it down for others.

“How?”

I asked.

Does Hyungkeshni know? Even if I wanted to share, I can’t.

Or perhaps my memories are all false. If they’re fabricated, then the name I can’t share doesn’t actually exist. I only have the sensation of having a name. Then what is this coldness? Who am I?

Questions arise.

But, unfortunately, these questions don’t bring an identity crisis. Instead, the endless, consuming cold gnaws at my existence.

It’s so cold I feel like I’m going mad. If I had time to ponder such thoughts, I’d better shut up and go find some warmth!

If instinct defines the essence of life, then my instincts are screaming at me to do just that. So, without wavering, I fix my gaze on Hyungkeshni and calmly ask my question.

“That’s quite the troublesome question,” she says, clicking her tongue. “So you have a name, but you can’t share it? Or is it something humans can’t pronounce?”
“Forward.”

At my response, Hyungkeshni lets out a short groan, her demeanor unusually hostile.

“You really are troublesome. Who would dare call you a god at this rate? So, is it completely unusable?”

As she waves her hand, a small feather floats into her palm from behind her—a quill pen.

A rather classic tool.

Hyungkeshni extends it toward me, and I take it without hesitation. It emanates an unusual energy, but dealing with strange things like me is something I’ve long accepted.

I sit down on the floor, prepared to use it.

Yet, the pen doesn’t move. I can’t form any shapes or letters. Writing anything in Hangul is impossible.

Even attempting to transcribe it into the local script doesn’t work. Although Rebecca’s memories allow me to understand their language, I can’t match the characters one-to-one or even spell it phonetically.

“This is odd. I can’t do it.”
“Some sort of restriction, perhaps? Something that shouldn’t exist for you in this world, I suppose,” Hyungkeshni muses, her eyes glinting as she studies me.

There’s intent in her gaze—a desire to dissect me with her questions. Her inquiries aren’t idle; they’re probing.

So, do I have any reason to lie?

None.

“I’m happy to be here. I am a vast, cold sea,” I say, beginning slowly this time. The last time I spoke too quickly, Hyungkeshni had stared at me like I was an overzealous storyteller.

This time, I keep my tone deliberate, leisurely, almost like singing—infusing rhythm and cadence into my words.

“I always gaze up at the light in the sky, wondering when it will fall. If I’m lucky, sometimes a light filled with unhappy memories comes to me. And with it, a little warmth.”

That’s what you are. Each life carries a light within its chest, and that light holds warmth. Hyungkeshni is beginning to understand.

I can see faint fear glimmering in her eyes. Of course, she should feel fear—I’ve just told her I view her kind as prey.

It’s only natural for prey to fear predators. While I have no intention of killing her or anyone else, if taking warmth requires killing, I won’t hesitate.

“I love that warmth. So, so much. The endless cold that devours me halts, just for a moment.”

That’s my drive. With this basic principle in mind, perhaps understanding me becomes easier.

“So I need warmth. I’ll do whatever it takes to get it. You say I was dragged into this world? Sure, I was suddenly hooked. But look at all the warmth in front of me. Thank you.”

I offer my thanks, though perhaps it’s more like a grace before a meal. Hehe.

“If a name reflects one’s existence, then all of this is my name.”

Hyungkeshni’s face is now filled with a smile, but I know it isn’t genuine.

Some people smile when they’re utterly terrified. It’s a forced response, a desperate attempt to alleviate overwhelming stress.

Humans are simple creatures; by smiling, they trick themselves into thinking the situation is lighter than it is, creating a semblance of ease.

“Was that the answer you were looking for?”

Hyungkeshni doesn’t reply. Behind her smile, fear leaks through. So intense, it escapes even her forced grin and manifests as trembling words:

“What have we done?”

She reacts as though she’s summoned an evil god. Me? At best, I’m a beast—one lacking intelligence or extraordinary abilities, certainly far from what anyone might bow their heads to in reverence.

I’m just a gluttonous pet.

Raise me well, and I’ll be happy. Feed me warmth, and I’ll even be a mascot for your zoo!

So, I say:

“Don’t be afraid, Hyungkeshni.”

I channel the spirit of a wild animal gradually opening its heart and gently place my hand on her cheek.

“No one has done anything wrong.”

I don’t think dragging me into this world was a bad thing at all.