While Michael remained asleep, Alfred finished a hearty meal of white bread slathered with butter, savory smoked ham, and crisp onion pickles, all washed down with milk. Rising from his seat, he stretched and prepared to leave. The night had already settled in, but it was of no concern to him.
Clara, still seated at the dining table, looked up curiously as she noticed Alfred reaching for his cloak. "Where are you going at this hour?"
"Just out for a walk," Alfred replied curtly.
Clara thought nothing of it. Her father-in-law was fond of evening strolls, and he was strong enough to take care of himself. Any lurking spirits or bandits in the night would have more reason to fear Alfred than the other way around.
"Shall I prepare a lantern for you?" she offered.
The door creaked shut behind him. Left alone in the faint glow of the dining room lamp, Clara sighed and resumed her sewing. With her husband away in the village investigating the culprit behind a recent incident, her tasks were limited to mending clothes and keeping the household in order.
Alfred returned from his walk just as Clara was starting her third garment. Draped over his broad shoulders was a massive bear carcass. Apparently, an audacious bear had attacked him during his stroll.
Clara helped Alfred hang the beast in the barn, marveling at the pristine condition of the pelt. The old man's skillful bare-handed kill had left the fur unblemished, a testament to his formidable strength.
By the time Michael opened his eyes, he had fully regained the memories of his new self. Gentle sunlight filtered through the window, warming his brow. His body felt much improved; he knew it was time to start moving again. After days confined to bed, his muscles ached from disuse, and he was eager to regain his strength.
With his memories now complete, Michael felt more assured. The fear of a grim, fiery end—his so-called "charcoal ending"—no longer loomed over him.
As Clara entered the room to change the bed linens, she brightened at the sight of him awake. Michael's face, illuminated by the sunlight, seemed almost holy, his angelic smile reminiscent of his childhood days.
"Michael, you're awake! Are you feeling hungry?" she asked warmly.
"I'm starving, Aunt," Michael replied with a sheepish grin.
In a flurry, Clara prepared breakfast. She boiled porridge with generous amounts of milk and finely chopped bear meat. While she would have liked to serve freshly baked bread and eggs, she opted for a lighter meal, mindful of Michael's recovery. Nonetheless, she seasoned the dish liberally, ensuring it was both nutritious and flavorful.
Michael finished the porridge and a glass of milk with gusto. Though he had worried about the quality of food in a world resembling the Middle Ages, he was pleasantly surprised. The warmth and care that went into the meal made it all the more satisfying.
Feeling revitalized, Michael slowly stood and left his room. In the hallway, he encountered his grandfather, Alfred, lighting a pipe. The older man's towering, muscular frame still exuded an intimidating presence.
"You're up. How's your body?" Alfred asked, his deep eyes revealing little emotion.
"Thanks to your care, I'm fully recovered. Thank you," Michael replied brightly.
Alfred puffed on his pipe as he regarded Michael. His black hair mirrored Alfred's own, while his vivid red eyes were a reflection of his late mother's. After a moment, Alfred nodded and settled back into his armchair.
"I feel stiff after lying in bed for so long. I think I'll take a walk," Michael said.
Alfred nodded again without a word, though Michael couldn't help but feel a shiver run down his spine. Did Alfred suspect anything? The thought of those massive fists—capable of crushing a human skull—was hard to ignore.
Michael strolled through the nearby woods, letting the brisk northern winter wind slash at his cheeks like a blade. The cold, crisp air filled his lungs, invigorating him as he walked.
With his thoughts now clearer, Michael decided to test something he had been putting off. After ensuring no one was around, he spoke aloud.
Nothing happened. As expected.
Still, he wasn't ready to give up. "Gacha. Dice roll. Lottery. Random box…"
He ran out of ideas. The futile attempt left him feeling embarrassed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. Shaking his head, Michael trudged back toward the house, his mind swirling with unease.
When he reached the yard, he noticed a wagon parked out front. His uncle must have returned from the village. A glossy brown horse neighed in greeting as it spotted him. Drawing from his inherited memories, Michael unfastened the harness and led the horse to the stable, where he fed it some hay.
The wagon bed was stained red, though whether it was blood or something else, Michael couldn't be sure. He fetched water and a scrubbing brush to clean it, layering fresh straw once the task was complete.
As he worked, faint screams reached his ears. "Aaaah! Hngh… urgh…"
Someone was being tortured nearby. Oddly, Michael found himself unperturbed. Was it his training as a fighter pilot? Or perhaps Michael's memories were influencing him. At just seventeen years old, he was already accustomed to the sound of screams—cries of confession, the crack of whips on flesh, and the struggles of condemned souls.
After finishing with the wagon, Michael spotted Clara in the yard, carrying a basket of laundry. She smiled at him.
"Oh, I was going to take care of that. Thank you, Michael."
"It's nothing, Aunt. Uncle has returned, hasn't he? He seems to have gotten straight to work," Michael said, glancing toward a building set apart from the main house.
The two-story annex, painted black and barred with iron windows, radiated an eerie atmosphere. Even in the height of summer, the place exuded a chilling aura. From inside, the tortured screams continued.
"Yes, we caught the man at last," Clara's husband said. "Father and I are taking care of him now."
"Who is he?" Michael asked.
"The man who assaulted and strangled little Jacques' six-year-old daughter. He's receiving the punishment he deserves."
"And now…?" Michael asked, his gaze shifting toward the annex.
Clara solemnly nodded and mimed a cutting motion. The gesture made Michael wince involuntarily.
"A fitting punishment," Michael remarked. The man was a child predator and a murderer; nothing could be more appropriate.