Chapter 45
Within the realm of consciousness, the spirit is the stake, and the body is the battlefield.
Ye Yihe lowered his eyes to look at the five fingers pressed against his chest—the same hand he now often saw. The outstretched fingers were slender and pale, as light as a butterfly touching his heart.
His mental exertion was so great that the battlefield, which should have been evenly matched, became one-sided, with Fyodor gaining an absolute advantage.
Everything here—the palace, the tower, the spiral staircase, the candles, the carpets, the walls covered with books… Yeikh even saw a cello… these were all manifestations of Fyodor's mental imagery, not his own.
At this moment, even a seemingly harmless finger can be used as an ingenious murder weapon with just a thought from the other party.
But Ye Yihe paid no attention to the sword of Damocles that was already hanging over his life. He noticed that the edges of the fingernails on this hand had become fragmented and broken again, and the knuckles had dark bruises that matched the teeth marks.
Fyodor's bad habit of biting his nails is something he just can't break.
Ye Yihe, whose expression was calm, was already extremely tired and his life was in imminent danger, but this somewhat far-fetched idea suddenly popped into his mind.
If the timing hadn't been so inappropriate, he would have almost laughed at himself.
The thought came to mind like that famous scene from the movie: "I say I kill without blinking, and you ask me if my eyes are dry."
Speaking of which, if he were really devoured by Fyodor here, would he die completely? Wouldn't that be considered the system tricking him?
Ye Yihe remembered watching a movie about multiple personality disorder. The protagonist's eleven personalities gathered in a motel isolated by a rainstorm, fighting each other in seemingly unrelated circumstances until the personality that ultimately won gained control of the body.
Will he also have to fight Fyodor within this tower of consciousness?
“I see,” Ye Yihe said softly, his voice low and listless, probably because of his terrible headache. “If you want to take action, I really don’t know what to do.”
Ultimately, this body doesn't have a primary personality or a secondary personality; it's just Fyodor from beginning to end.
If I had to make an analogy, he'd be more like a homeless tenant, the kind who'd been secretly shoved into the system's system.
How could someone like that possibly defeat the indigenous people? They might even be considered to be acting in self-defense if the other side swallowed him up.
Even his current appearance in this space of consciousness may have come from Fyodor's consciousness—in his mind, his [good] personality should look like this, hence his current resemblance to Fyodor.
...Perhaps, something even more perfect? Ye Yihe recalled that not even the scars from the healing of the inscription remained on his left forearm.
Those deep purple eyes were fixed on him intently, and upon hearing his reply, they curved slightly upwards, as if revealing a playful chuckle.
"Aren't you going to resist?"
Ye Yihe vaguely sensed that he was asking this question.
"No, not at all,"
Ye Yihe raised his hand.
The sensation of being tightly held underwater was so vivid that he could still recall the intense throbbing he felt amidst the darkness and despair, a sudden surge of life against all odds.
He was caught, just when he thought he was going to die.
And there was one thing he hadn't noticed—his nails were neat and rounded, and the skin on his knuckles was very smooth, completely different from Fyodor's hands.
And so, Fyodor said he would now devour him.
Ye Yihe felt he wanted to smile too, so he did.
"I just feel like you wouldn't do that."
—His tone was much lighter, almost as if he were a child walking home in the sunset, full of anticipation for each tomorrow. "Wasn't that deep sea-like water enough to swallow me?"
If you leave him alone, he will drown in that deep sea of consciousness.
That kind of behavior was more like "devouring" than deliberately saving him and intending to kill him by hand using a laborious method.
Based on Ye Yihe's understanding of him, this kind of intelligent but physically weak villain with subordinates and an elegant demeanor is generally more inclined to kill by using others or taking advantage of the situation; unless it is for his own pleasure, he is rarely willing to do it himself and let blood stain his own clothes.
"is that so?"
In the flickering candlelight, Fyodor's gaze seemed to appear and disappear, "It seems that this makes sense."
Unlike Stevenson and Gogol, who had spoken English earlier, Fyodor spoke Russian to Yeikh from beginning to end, at a moderate pace, with each syllable pronounced beautifully.
Ye Yihe listened attentively, trying to imitate his pronunciation.
"If you decide to kill me,"
Hearing Fyodor's response, Ye Yihe's smile became more genuine—and more sincere. "Please promise me you won't bite your nails anymore."
This is really not a good habit!
"…………"
Fyodor looked at him quietly, while Ye Yihe's gaze returned without flinching.
"It seems I have no choice but to agree to this cunning deal."
With a slight smile, Fyodor withdrew his left hand from Ye Yihe's chest. "So that's how it is. This is the other [me]? This meeting is even more interesting than I imagined."
Seemingly not intending to do anything more, he turned around and walked towards the wall filled with bookshelves.
This tower space, constructed by consciousness, is not large. The floor is covered with a dark, luxurious velvet carpet, and scattered among it are items that represent a microcosm of Fyodor's life.
Ye Yihe noticed that he was not wearing shoes, nor did he have the white velvet earmuffs or the heavy cloak he usually wore over his shoulders, and he was very thin.
Just as I had analyzed before, Fyodor's walking technique was incorrect; his shoulders were slightly hunched inward, yet it presented a somewhat morbid elegance.
Left behind, Ye Yihe rubbed his temples, which ached from the dizziness, and suppressed the urge to yawn. "Aren't you going to kill me?"
"I don't plan to change my habits yet,"
Fyodor took a book with a gold-embossed cover from the bookshelf, turned around and walked back to him—seemingly intending to sit down and read in a chair on the other side.
"I had no choice but to agree to your terms."
The more casually Ye Yihe said this, the more he wanted to laugh.
“Are you going to sit down and read a book? Aren’t you going out?” he asked Fyodor. “This body is yours to dominate, not mine.”
Not to mention that all he wanted to do right now was sleep... If he could, he would lie down and sleep right now. His mind had already reached its limit, and he was extremely tired and exhausted.
“There’s no need. Stevenson’s ability is the type that lasts after a single effect, and our consciousness will coexist in this body in the future,”
Fyodor walked past Yeyhe at a leisurely pace. "In the past, there were problems such as our memories not being able to be shared, or me hypnotizing myself to ignore you. But those problems have been resolved now."
To be precise, even though neither Ye Yihe nor he was in control of their bodies afterward, they could still be aware of the external situation in real time.
This is why Fyodor specifically came to see Stevenson.
Robert Stevenson himself was not particularly famous, and his highly targeted superpowers were almost entirely non-aggressive and harmless—but he was still registered on the Clock Tower Attendants' list of superpowered individuals, and Fyodor had once torn the Clock Tower Attendants apart, so obtaining their list of superpowered individuals was no problem for him.
However, the purpose he intended to achieve by using [Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde]'s superpowers was completely different from what Stevenson thought.
Well... you can't say that. If Ye Yihe's answer had done anything to displease him, he might have been devoured on the spot.
"And now, you can continue to use my body"—this unspoken implication was revealed in both Fyodor's actions and his words.
“...That won’t do.”
Before Fedor had gone far, Yeykh muttered something.
He suddenly reached out and grabbed Fyodor's wrist—it was indeed as slender as he had estimated, like pinching the soft nape of a cat's neck—Ye Yihe, whose mind was so muddled that it could not function properly, made this unfounded connection.
"Um?"
As Fyodor, whose movements were restrained, was about to turn his head to the side, a figure fell towards him, like a slowly tilting tower.
Caught off guard, Fyodor, despite his strong spirit, was unable to support the weight of the falling object and was forced to lean back with gravity until they both lay on the soft carpet.
Unexpectedly, Ye Yihe suddenly fell towards him. Under the weight of this object, Fyodor stared at the ceiling at the top of the tower, which looked like the stars were turning, and fell into a brief silence.
"………………"
The two were nearly identical in stature. After fainting, Ye Yihe buried his face in the crook of Fyodor's neck, their jet-black hairs intertwining on the velvet blanket, making it impossible to distinguish them.
The tower was extremely quiet at this moment, with only the soft, rhythmic breathing of someone close at hand.
A warm breath gently brushed over that spot, and Fyodor had never had his private space violated to such an extreme. His breathing slowed, and he reflexively recalled the bite mark left on his knuckles—that vivid, undeniable pain.
Completely exhausted, Ye Yihe entered shutdown mode and fell into a deep sleep.
Fyodor tried to wake him by shaking him, but failed.
"…………"
He used some force to try to lift the body on top of him, only to find that it was much more difficult than shaking him awake.
Is this the consequence of forcibly awakening a still weak and vulnerable "good" personality...?
This palatial tower is a microcosm of Fyodor's life, where all the key elements that constituted his past personality are physically displayed—how could that possibly include his bed?
But this is his conscious space, and his spirit is the master here.
In the next instant, as the candlelight flickered, a large bed appeared in a corner of the tower, which was decorated in an elegant and antique style. It was soft and fluffy, enough for Ye Yihe to quietly sink into it and have a good, satisfying sleep.
Fyodor also stood up and went to Yeikh's bedside, which he had mentally moved there.
The other person was sleeping soundly at the moment, and even with his eyes closed, one could tell from the slight upturn of his lips that he was expressing his good mood.
If Stevenson knew that Fyodor's body contained such a peaceful scene, he would probably be so envious that he would bite the corner of his blanket and sob in the middle of the night.
Fyodor gazed at the sleeping Yeykh for a moment, smiled, and then closed his eyes as well.
————
"Ah, he's awake!"
This time, the ceiling was an unfamiliar snow-white, and I heard the barking of a small silver dog beside me, "Doctor, doctor, come quick!"
"Didn't you just complain that I'm just an unlicensed psychologist who can't do anything?"
Stevenson, whose voice came from a distance, sounded extremely angry: "Then don't try to order me around now!"
"I didn't call him 'doctor,' I called him 'professor,'"
—When he said this, Gogol's voice didn't soften even slightly; he emphasized it bluntly, "What we'll be using is your special ability. Because it's not my dear Fedia who's awake right now, but Fyodor."
In English, "doctor" and "doctorate" are the same word, and the specific meaning used is usually determined by the context.
Gogol was originally called by both Fyodor and Fedya, but now he distinguishes them very clearly, using only the affectionate nickname for the other personality.
It was as if they disliked that it was Fyodor who had woken up now, instead of the fleeting Ye Yihe.
Fyodor: "…………"
...This attitude feels familiar.
He sat up in bed and looked around—judging from the magic props and clothes scattered around, this was Gogol's hotel room.
"I already said I'm the doctor... Shut up, I'm not calling you, go back to your place... This body has always belonged to me, you're the one who only causes trouble!"
Seemingly triggered by a keyword, Stevenson, who was arguing with the [evil] personality, walked over with a water glass in hand, cursing. But when he met those cold, indifferent wine-red eyes, he immediately fell silent and carefully placed the water glass on Fyodor's bedside table.
For some reason, even the evil personality within him was afraid of him.
If this same intimidating aura hadn't also worked on him, Stevenson would have been reluctant to leave this incredibly charismatic young man.
After a moment's hesitation, Stevenson was unsure where to begin.
Gogol stared intently at him, as if trying to find evidence in every possible clue that Yeykh could wake up.
"Are you doubting that I've devoured another version of myself?" Fyodor asked.
He smiled and placed his hand on his chest.
"Don't worry, he's sleeping peacefully here. I haven't done anything to harm him."
Gogol gave a seemingly serious "Oh," and then asked, "Is there any way to get him out?"
That statement sounded incredibly blunt, as if he would act immediately if someone told him that killing Fyodor would be the way to get Yeykh out.
An ordinary person would be wary of Gogol upon hearing this, let alone want to strike first.
But Fyodor was no ordinary man. He didn't care about Gogol's differential treatment at all, and instead told him with great interest, "It's because his spirit is too poor, and he needs to replenish it with sleep."
How long will it take?
“I don’t know either. If you’re planning to wait for him,” Fyodor extended his hand in invitation, “then I have a proposal that will let you know as soon as he wakes up.”
"Would you like to join the [House of the Dead Rats]?"
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