The hospital ward fell silent.
The wind outside howled low, squeezing through the crevices like a sigh.
"Then how do you suppress it?" Pavela asked.
"An Anchor."
Margaret said, "Find sothing imperfect, sothing you know is imperfect but would never 'correct,' and use it as an Anchor."
She pulled sothing out of the inner pocket of her trench coat.
An old pocket watch.
The brass case was heavily worn, with a prominent dent on the edge as if it had been struck by sothing.
There was a crack in the glass face, stretching from the bottom left to the top right, splitting the dial into two uneven halves.
The hands were frozen at 3:17.
"This was my father's."
Margaret said, "It's been broken for many years. I could fix it, anyti I want."
She flipped the pocket watch over.
A line of scrawled words was engraved on the back of the case. Pavela couldn't make out the content, but she could tell it wasn't a craftsman's work; it had been etched casually with sothing sharp.
"But I won't fix it."
Margaret put the pocket watch back in her pocket.
"It is indeed imperfect, it is broken, but this is how it's supposed to be."
"When that voice starts telling you 'this is wrong, that is wrong,' you look at that object and tell yourself—so things in this world don't need to be corrected; they are fine as they are."
Pavela lowered her head.
She thought of sothing.
Her gaze involuntarily drifted toward her left wrist.
A dark red strip of cloth was wrapped around it.
Originally a hair ribbon modified into a collar ornant, its edges had been scorched in the explosion. Now, she wore it wrapped around her wrist as a bracer.
It wasn't tied very neatly.
One end of the strip was long and the other short; the short end poked out like a small corner, resembling a fallen leaf that hadn't been blown away by the wind.
And it was dirty.
Dark brown bloodstains had seeped into the fibers of the fabric, impossible to wash clean no matter how hard she tried.
It was a gift from Irene.
The corner of Pavela's mouth twitched slightly.
"I think I have one too," she said.
Margaret's eyes fell on the dark red cloth on Pavela's wrist.
She didn't press further.
She simply nodded.
"That's enough."
Then, her expression changed.
It shifted from the concern of a senior for a junior back to the mode Pavela was more familiar with.
"Now, I need to discuss another matter."
Margaret said, "Regarding the fact that you can step onto two paths of return simultaneously."
Pavela waited for her to continue.
"A normal Wayfarer has only one Way Back in their lifeti. From the mont of awakening, their soul establishes a resonance with a specific frequency of the primordial sea. This frequency is fixed, like a fingerprint or the natural color of one's pupils; it does not change."
"They can deepen their resonance with this frequency by advancing through sequences, but they won't suddenly switch to another frequency. A Wayfarer of Path of the Tower will always be of Path of the Tower, and a Wayfarer of the Path of the Moon will always ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) be of the Path of the Moon."
"But you are not."
There was no surprise in Margaret's tone.
It was as if the final piece of a long-standing puzzle had finally been found.
"While the formation blocked all paths of return, you obtained the power of the Path of the Magician, and that power remains within you even now."
"You can also switch between Path of the Tower and the Path of the Magician at any ti."
"Among the known twenty-two paths of return, only one allows a Wayfarer to do this."
"And that is the Path of the Fool."
"The most unique of the twenty-two paths of return. To be precise, it isn't a 'path'; it is the intersection of all paths."
"Ferryn of the Path of the Fool do not belong to any established trajectory of fate. Their souls have no fixed frequency; they are like water, able to flow into any container and adapt to any shape. Therefore—"
"Therefore, they can step onto any path of return," Pavela finished.
Margaret glanced at her.
"It seems you've already guessed."
"Soone told sothing similar," Pavela nodded.
She rembered the woman in the grey dress.
Pavela continued, "But I assu the price must be quite high."
"Yes."
Margaret's tone turned serious.
"The price is very real. The power of The Way Back is never a free lunch."
"For you, the erosion from every path of return is real. You aren't 'borrowing' soone else's power; you are truly stepping onto that path. The erosion of Path of the Tower, the erosion of the Path of the Magician—they won't be discounted just because you are a Fool."
"You are currently carrying two sets of erosion. If you slide into a third or fourth path of return in the future—"
"It will be three sets, four sets."
"And they stack."
"With every additional path you step onto, you gain another voice to fight against. Path of the Tower wants you to destroy, the Path of the Magician wants you to control. If you step onto the Path of the Moon in the future, it will want you to lose the distinction between reality and illusion; if you step onto the Way of Strength, it will want you to release the beast within."
"All these voices will exist in your consciousness simultaneously. They won't cancel each other out; they will only stack upon one another."
Pavela stared at the ceiling.
The rabbit missing its left ear sat there quietly, completely indifferent to it all.
"Also, I suggest you don't switch frequencies at will."
Margaret continued.
"Every ti you switch frequencies, your soul needs to detach from one and establish resonance with another."
"This process is incredibly taxing on the mind. It's like removing a guitar string and restretching it to a different pitch. Doing it once or twice is fine, but if you switch frequently, repeatedly restretching it in a short period—"
"The string will snap."
"Your consciousness will shatter, leaving you an empty shell."
"Or worse—you'll be completely consud by the erosion of one of those paths, becoming an avatar of that path."
"Whichever frequency you happen to be on at the mont of collapse, that is what you will beco."
Pavela processed all this information in her head.
She now had two paths of return.
Two sets of erosion.
Every switch had a price.
Switching too frequently would lead to death, or sothing worse.
Not switching also had its price.
And there might be even more in the future.
"Is there any good news?" she asked.
Margaret looked at her.
"There is good news. At least you haven't gone mad so far."
"...Thanks, that makes feel much better."
"You're welco."
The ward was silent for a while.
Pavela didn't follow up.
She looked down at the white paper box on her lap.
The Caral Hazelnut Mille-Feuille.
More than half the box was still left.
She rembered Eleanor's sigh as she patted her head.
"This theory," Pavela said, "did you tell Eleanor?"
"I did."
"What did she say?"
"She said,'So she might beco even more dangerous in the future?'."
Pavela's throat tightened.
"...And then?"
"Then she said, 'It's fine. I can handle whatever she becos anyway.'"
Pavela turned her face toward the window.
Outside was a greyish-white sky; the clouds were thick, hiding the sun.
Her ears felt a bit hot.
"...She really said that?"
"Word for word."
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