It was a week and three days later when a man called Tom arrived at the cabin. He was a thin, wiry man with short brown hair, a moustache and the strong smell of alcohol that clung to him in the middle of the day.

“Ah, you’re awake?”

The man, who looked like a wilted cabbage, muttered as he looked at him. Unlike Swan, who was beaming as if she had found a long lost father, the man’s eyes were dull and indifferent. Swan, who had smiled at Tom, quickly changed the subject and asked about his armour.

Tom scratched his head awkwardly, then suddenly raised his left hand.

“Gosh, I don’t know what happened!”

“Well, it’s… uh…”

The man laughed sheepishly, admitting that he couldn’t remember anything after drinking. Swan, not making a big deal out of it, sat him down in a chair in the living room and said she was going to the storeroom to get some medicine. When Swan left, the man’s eyes looked uncomfortable. He seemed nervous about being left alone with Atlion.

“I heard you were keeping my things.”

“Th-there…”

The man, scratching the back of his head, cleared his throat awkwardly. Atlion, standing up, watched him intently as he tried to slip away quietly. His name was Atlion. He furrowed his brow. In the more than a week and three days that had passed, the only thing he had managed to remember was the name ‘Atlion’.

Arrows, metal, swords and fire, the approaching inferno, the raging torrents over the cliffs… dying, killing and death… The faint memory that passed over his pale face was still vivid, but that was all. Was that all he could remember of the missing armour? Fragmented, unclear memories swirled in his mind.

One day, while lying n*ked with him, Swan suddenly slipped over to the storeroom and began to fiddle with the scattered pieces of armour. He couldn’t help but remember the sight of her face, holding a large gauntlet and biting her lips.

After a night of indulgence, she had slipped into the storeroom and begun to play with the armour. Disassembled, it was nothing more than a charred hunk of metal.

He knelt beside the woman, his hand brushing the surface of the gauntlet as he replayed the fragile dream in his mind. It floated aimlessly, like grains of white rice. The remnants of his past life, drifting aimlessly and without meaning. Memories surged, but they couldn’t take shape. If he couldn’t recover them, the past would remain an empty shell, reflected in the tarnished, scorched fragments of metal.

“Th-there… even I don’t know.”

Tom said, his face showing confusion. Atlion fixed his gaze on him. He remembered how Swan had once gone down into the valley, leaving the fuzzy armour behind. That too had happened only four days ago.

He thought of the woman in the storeroom, playing with the remaining armour and telling him she was going to the village for a moment. She had hurried out. When he had suggested they go to the valley together, she had refused. She was afraid the man wouldn’t be able to return with her, so she went alone.

“Well.”

“Wh-what do you mean? Of course I showed it to someone who knows about it.”

“……”

Swan, who had gone down to the village, didn’t return until three hours later. Sweat was visible on her forehead and her breathing was rapid and uneven. Her face, so pale it was almost blue, looked like someone who had been deeply frightened. After drinking a glass of water, she seemed to return to her usual self, but the signs of the difficult ordeal she had been through were clear.

Why doesn’t she live in the village? Why didn’t she come to the village with me?

“I showed it to someone who knows about the armour. That person is probably still looking at it… Anyway, I don’t have it with me!”

The man, who had been quick to apologise, lowered his eyes. His face was pale and trembling. Atlion studied the man who had suddenly become overly polite.

“Y-Your Excellency, you don’t remember either, do you? Do you?”

The man raised his head cautiously, his eyes shining with a subtle light. Atlion remained silent. He still could not remember. Apart from his name, everything else – his surname, his status, his family, his home – was a complete blank. Yet he didn’t believe that his memories were gone forever.

Pieces of them would surface now and then, refusing to leave him in peace. Even when he was with Swan.

Yes, even when he was holding Swan. When he buried his face in her full br*ast and basked in her warmth, it happened. He didn’t avoid Swan. Nothing had changed since that day – when he had released himself into her mouth.

But after Swan returned from the village, things felt different. The memories that had once come in fragments now surged forward in overwhelming waves. Since that moment when his arousal had subsided, overwhelmed by those intruding memories as he lay against her belly, he had found himself unable to desire her. That fleeting feeling, that overwhelming sensation, had consumed him, leaving no desire for anything else. Did Swan notice his change?

Two nights after her return from the village, she crept n*ked into his bed late at night and pressed her n*ked body against his chest. Her bare br*asts and the faint scars on her skin caught his attention. He wanted to push her away, but the smoothness of her skin and her delicate figure made him hold her instead.

As he thought about it, he realised that there was no reason to refuse. No reason to resist. The soft feel of her br*asts against him stirred his desire and he hardened, taking her into his arms.

He thrust into her, bursting inside her. Each time her soft, round body quivered and gasped against his chest, the flood of memories seemed to pause. But when it was over and he lay there, his heavy body sprawled beside hers, the scattered fragments of his past returned to haunt him once more.

Arrowheads, iron, severed necks, burning oil and the howling of horses. The chaos of the battlefield….

A long arm pulled the woman closer. She nestled effortlessly against him. Her forehead pressed against his chest, she looked up at him with bright, tender, longing eyes.

Whenever her clear face flushed with a rosy tinge, she always seemed to be hoping for a kiss. As if it were something extraordinary. To him, it was a trivial act. But Swan hesitated endlessly, whispering softly.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

He didn’t want to deal with the sensuality of an exchange of tongues. In fact, he didn’t particularly enjoy kissing, and probably never had. Even when he tried to sift through the ragged fragments of his memories to see if he had known other women before Swan, nothing came to mind.

Maybe that was why he didn’t enjoy kissing, even when he held Swan in his arms. Unless she specifically asked for it, he preferred to avoid pressing or intertwining their tongues. Though Swan’s lips were undeniably beautiful, on days when they weren’t particularly appealing, he found it more satisfying to bury his face in her br*ast instead.

In truth, Swan’s br*ast was her most striking feature. Her slender waist, hips and b*ttocks were also attractive, but it was her br*ast that stood out the most. But Swan seemed to value kissing more. No, it was as if she believed there was something uniquely important about it.

Otherwise her nose wouldn’t have turned so rosy.

Still, it wasn’t a problem for him to indulge in something he didn’t particularly enjoy from time to time. There was no reason to refuse a maiden who warmed his empty nights and brought him pleasure. So Atlion kissed Swan whenever she asked.

He intertwined their tongues passionately, stroked her hair as much as she wanted, and ended with a kiss on her forehead. If that was the affection she wanted in bed, he had no objection to providing it.

“Isn’t that right? Y-you must surely…”

Atlion raised his head and looked at the man. His stammering and fumbling as he desperately searched for a way to save himself was pathetic. Why had Swan chosen to associate with someone like him? Surely, even in a remote village like this, not everyone was as shabby and unseemly as this wretched man.

Yet Swan waited for him every day. Probably because there was no one else to talk to but the fool in front of her.

“Th-that’s why if someone who knows about the armour is found, they’ll uncover your identity, and then your memories will surely…”

“So what you’re saying is that you sold my belongings.”

“Sold them? How could you even think that? No, no! I just found someone who knew about armour and asked for his help, nothing more!”

Tom raised his voice, trying to hide his trembling, but the fear that gripped him was unmistakable. There was an unsettling aura about the man before him – just meeting his eyes sent a shiver down his spine. In fifty years, Tom had never met anyone quite like him.

When he was sick and pale, he looked like a prince cursed by a witch. Perhaps that was why Swan was drawn to him and continued acting foolishly while teasing him. Tom cleared his throat and looked away.

The man before him seemed convinced that Tom had sold his possessions. Since Tom couldn’t provide it immediately, it was understandable that the man assumed the armour had been sold on the black market. However, the armour remained safely stored in Tom’s house.

Initially, Tom had indeed taken a piece of the armour from Swan and taken it to a blacksmith for consultation. The blacksmith was a skilled craftsman who was highly trusted by the village lord. Because of his reputation, he often received commissions not only from the lord, but also from nobles and their knights from neighbouring regions. Tom assumed that if anyone could identify the armour or insignia, it would be him.

But after a long examination, the blacksmith admitted that he didn’t recognise it. With a pale expression on his face, he simply told Tom to return the item to its owner. Despite this, Tom stubbornly remained in the shop and waited.

Finally, with a sigh, the blacksmith explained that while he didn’t recognise the insignia, the quality of the metal and the skilful tempering of the armour were far beyond what was normally used by knights of noble houses. He speculated that it probably belonged to a great noble – or perhaps someone of even greater status.

The blacksmith, trying to conceal his paleness, quickly said everything he wanted to before promptly sending Tom out of his forge.

As a result, the armor remained in Tom’s house. If Swan hadn’t come to his house four days ago and personally asked him to keep the armor, he would have long since returned it to its rightful owner.

But Swan… Tom sighed. Swan loved the man in front of her so much that she didn’t know how to handle it. At least that’s how Tom saw it. Even if it was wrong, he was always willing to help when it came to Swan.

Besides, hadn’t she been crying with that look on her face? She was already carrying the weight of guilt for deceiving him.

“You said you sought help?”

“Y-yes, although it’s taking longer than expected and the person doesn’t seem very knowledgeable either, stumbling along the way. But I swear I never intended to harm Your Excellency…”

Tom fell silent under the weight of Atlion’s unyielding gaze. In the end, it was obvious – recovering the item wasn’t possible. Not now, and perhaps not ever.

Atlion’s eyes burned with rage as he stared at Tom. This was a man who hadn’t looked for Swan for a long time. Even on the day Swan had gone to see him, he hadn’t been home. Whatever his intentions, it seemed clear that he had deliberately discarded the items in his possession. That must be why he was avoiding Swan.

Atlion’s gaze penetrated him. A man who claimed to visit this hut every four days hadn’t been here in over a week. If that wasn’t avoiding Swan, what could it be? Fighting back the anger that was rising within him, Atlion held his sharp gaze on the man.

To a knight, armour might have meaning, but it was ultimately replaceable. Though his title and rank remained hazy in his fragmented memory, Atlion didn’t believe that regaining his armour was the key to reclaiming his past. His past was always there, restless and lingering at his feet.

“I-I just wanted to examine it and return it quickly!” 

Tom dropped to his knees, his thin, hooked nose trembling as he spoke. Atlion’s gaze flickered to the man’s hands, pressed to the ground. Wrapped in old, tattered cloth used as makeshift bandages, they bore deep, visible cuts. Without hesitation, Atlion lifted his foot and stomped on them.

“Argh!” 

The sickening sound of cracking bones echoed, followed by Tom’s anguished cry. At that moment, the door swung open and Swan entered. Atlion, who had crushed Tom’s hand into the floor with enough force to shatter the bones in his fingers, pulled his foot back. Tom clutched at his injured hand, his body shaking as he groaned in pain.

“W-what’s…?”