After Klint told Faust he had bad news, he grabbed him by the arm and dragged him toward a remote corner of the village. Broken stones, crooked roads, and leaking pipes gave the place a grim, heavy atmosphere.
"It's been weeks since I last got bad news—or was it months? Honestly, I feel like I'm losing my sense of time. I already know it's nothing that'll hurt us directly, but… something feels off. Maybe it's connected to us, just not about us. Probably… right?" thought Faust, as he kept being pulled along.
The man in question, Klint—Klint Eternal—stood around 1.87 meters tall, broad-shouldered, with black hair. Young, yet somehow carrying the weight of middle age. He spent his days working, working… and yes, working some more. The kind of man who found no meaning in life, but kept trying to look for it—and usually failed.
If you asked Klint to describe himself, he'd probably say something like this:
"Me? Aaah! I'm handsome, tall, muscular, satisfied with life (absolutely not), the kind of guy everyone wants to know and be friends with (yeah, wrong again). I'm one of Faust's most trusted men, his right-hand guy. Should I be proud? Sure. You don't think so? Then go screw yourself. It's been, what, three years since we first met? What? You think three years isn't enough to get that close? Then, again—go screw yourself.
I don't even remember how many times we've fought, worked, and survived side by side. But I do remember one thing. How many times he's saved me from trouble. Normally, I'm not the type to cause problems—but I can't stand disrespect, and that tends to get me into fights. So yeah, Faust has saved my ass hundreds of times over the past three years.
How many times from death itself? Oh, that I remember exactly—seventy-nine times. Doesn't mean I'm weak, of course. Just that sometimes, sometimes, I end up picking fights not with people, but with groups. Or organizations. And that's when Faust steps in.
People say I don't respect him, that I act like I don't see him that way. But the truth is, when I see the man I look up to in danger—or doing something reckless—I just react. Instinctively. I'd never disrespect him.
If anyone heard me saying all this, they'd probably call me a fanatic. 'You spent half your breath talking about Faust when we asked about you!' they'd say. But I see him as an architect—the one who rebuilt me from the ground up. If I ever had to describe myself, I'd spend half that time talking about Faust first.
Weird, huh? That's fine. You can screw off too."