I woke from a long dream, one in which insane battles had just taken place.
As I opened my eyes, I realized I was inside a Roman-style ancient amphitheater. Around me, spectators were slumped asleep in their seats—some even sprawled out on the ground.
"Awake already?"
Marcus stood in the middle of the aisle between the stands, holding several items he had stolen from the dozing audience members. He shouted as if deliberately trying to draw attention to himself.
I sprang up, forcing my numb leg—stiff from sitting too long—to move. Stepping past several bodies lying across the stone steps, I made my way down to the event arena. Just like the stands, no one there was awake except Marcus and me.
"How long has it been?" I asked Marcus, who was now sitting casually in a VIP guest seat in the stands.
"About nineteen hours. Not too long. Honestly, I find it quite comfortable—being this free after turning into a spear."
"I wasn't asking about you… Never mind. Is everyone else ready?"
"They've been ready for a while. Oh, by the way—do you really have prophetic abilities? Can you tell me when I'll get married, or who she'll be?"
"…"
Marcus and I walked behind the stands toward the entrance area, casually taking several expensive-looking items from a weapons vendor's stall along the way.
"Is it really okay to take things like this?"
After pressing me for an answer, Marcus finally asked about what I was doing. I shook my head and pointed at the people lying on the ground.
"When they wake up, how many of them do you think will still be alive?"
Marcus, who had been excited just moments ago, suddenly fell silent. He looked down at his hands, recalling what he had done—and what he was about to do.
"Hah… But didn't you say they would survive? Their physical bodies here aren't harmed, are they?"
Hearing that, I stepped toward Marcus, lifted my leg, and kicked straight toward his groin. He managed to dodge and glared at me.
"Hey! What the hell was that?!"
"That was an example."
I replied calmly while taking a small knife from the weapon rack. In one swift motion, I thrust it toward Marcus's eye. His pupil constricted instantly. I stopped the blade just a few millimeters away.
"Hey! What are you even trying to say?!"
"Instinct."
I answered his angry voice, withdrew my hand, slipped the knife back into my coat, then calmly took out a boiled egg and ate it.
"When you see something rushing toward you, you instinctively block or dodge it. Or you may even choose to brace yourself—to hunch over or shift your body—to reduce the impact."
"The nocebo effect. That's what I call the phenomenon that occurs in situations like this. Except instead of being physically harmed, you believe you've been harmed. The object may have stopped, but the screams, voices, and sounds convince you that you were stabbed. Your body then reacts as if the injury truly occurred. You develop real symptoms—not from an external wound, but from the belief that you were injured."
"The brain does not require an actual event. It only needs to interpret that danger has occurred."
Marcus stopped walking, thought for a moment, then picked up a short sword near his feet and mimicked stabbing his own neck—stopping halfway.
"…That won't work. Belief is the key," I commented on his foolish action.
I continued, addressing what remained unresolved.
"Body parts that normally function through instinct and the ego—muscles, hormones, neural signals—can be overridden by deeply ingrained belief. The areas you believe to be affected become genuinely impaired, even without any actual wound. Paralysis, pain, excessive hormone secretion… These injuries are real."
"However, the reverse is also true. Certain beliefs can improve the body's condition in many ways—even if those beliefs are entirely unfounded."
Marcus followed behind me. As if realizing something, he asked,
"So if someone truly believes they are dead… does the body actually die?"
"Yes. It's called psychogenic death. A death caused by the belief that one is already dead. That belief can crush the body of those here the moment they die in the virtual reality and return to reality."
"If it's mild, they may be fine—or develop mental illness. If severe, they will die. In various ways…"
Marcus took a deep breath and stopped beside a streetlamp, unable to continue walking.
"…Then how many people died in that virtual reality?"
"…Do you think I can calculate that?"
I looked at him and sighed. There was nothing more I could say. He looked back at me in silence.
We were not close, but ,we had spoken at length before, when I asked for his help with this event and ensured his cooperation through various means.
"…About this city," Marcus finally spoke, trying to dispel the oppressive silence. "You said there was something hidden deep within it, didn't you?"
"That's right. It's connected to a long story. Would you like to hear about the city of Pyath?"
…
Three hundred years ago, in the year 17XX, in the city of saints—Lebem—the leader of the city was a man named Herod.
Lebem was also known as the Pure White Fortress amid the barren desert, a place where practitioners gathered to express their devotion.
On a late autumn day, a beggar arrived at the white citadel of Lebem.
He wore a black cloak stained with coal dust. His hands were rough—those of a miner. He wore no clothing beneath the cloak. His face lacked discernible features, his long hair tangled and wild, making it impossible to see his eyes.