The Fake Soul that Operated Flesh in Repetition noticing something, extremely intricate and bizarre, on the youth's quiver, also golden; was actually – surprised he could be rendered so by anything – curious what it was –

This was apparent to the youth; his curiosity, “In the field; you shall discern its functioning,” changing subject; “He's in there – of course,” indicating the turning away edifice – “in terms of the current subject matter, he isn't a Cyclops any longer. And everyone loves Cyclops, lovely beings,” it was like he knew who he was – he prayed The Golden Bow did not know who he was, “it's the massive fake-soul demon thing that from – wherever they get these things, a demon large enough to slip inside what was once a majestic being – uniquely talented; as I believe you understand; but he's in there. The first. And a specific number, of course, before you encounter her –” For some reason, the King thought him, connected to that pronoun, extremely polite and gentile, even, this was below the surface, as if the youth had given him something, in this moment, he couldn't identity, allowed him, a gift – perhaps to even remain ignorant of – but he again couldn't let his mind focus on something that –

“Who?” before he'd even –

“The Demon Queen of Hortag.” The Fake Soul that Operated Flesh in Repetition could see his own expression, something in his own eyes momentarily mirrored in those of the youth. And he had to fight to suppress the interior notion that this, flash, of comprehension elicited –

In order to rid his mind of it: “But why? – And why... are you – why would you even... you want to go in – what is it?”

“It's a dungeon, in tiers, in layers, that goes up mad geometric, subterranean corridors; no transitions – that is the transitions, between you, those parts of yourself you project outside, the corridors within/without – the demons; yourself interchangeable. It's a dungeon, the summit of which, mazes, you understand, tiers, mad and conflicting interpretations – and he's in it. – In there. Merely the first. Merely the first of a series in a series of a hierarchy that leads to –”

before he could say it – “ He's –”

“– He's at the centre, or the summit, some kind of rising affirmation towards knowledge; secret or otherwise – we don't know precisely the strange interior shapes that shall be and are of course – they will be applied/rendered out of, the architectures that always find themselves warping out in relationship to perspectives and minds – it's a demon dungeon? You? Never tried? And – what's your name? Anyway.”

Seeing no alternative, he barked it out, “I don't know who I am – and I'll warn you immediately I have no interest whatever in acquiring that knowledge.”

“You don't want to know who you are?”

“No I do not.”

“What do you want then?”

He said nothing.

The golden youth repeated the silence at him.

So, “– I want to exist... I want to kill them.”

“Well if you like killing them, there's rather a lot inside, and in fact – you see where you are?” The Golden Bow glanced around in an act that was rhetorical. “– You see that this is a corridor that leads only there. The problem, however, is the fact that... you don't wish to know who you are? You have a name?”

“I have a name my mind calls... itself. One – I had one and then it gave me another... one.”

“I see, what is that name?”

The youth would not cease with questions, “The King in Grids and Mind; and then the Fake Soul that Operated Flesh in Repetition.”

“I see; titles, very good – you understand this means you're some kind of hero? Otherwise...”

“I exist.”

This made the youth laugh for some reason mysterious to the Fake Soul that Operated Flesh in Repetition. “– Yes you most certainly do, but I – it's not a name, but I can – your soul is not fake, by the way – rather on the surface obviously the case – this is obvious merely consulting with you momentarily – but I'll use a title. Courtesy is more important than ever in places like this – hells, quite patently. Your soul is no way fake, but – but I can see you in reality are a variety of King. Therefore, the King in Grids it is... because that is certainly... inarguable. We both are. In grids. – As it pertains to these demonic corridors and the separate reality segments, units if you prefer, that we each occupy in these individual segments, that constitute – anyway, these corridors – them – But – I was saying –”

“We're standing here talking,”

“We certainly are, and I have just, moments before you arrived, killed rather a lot of demons, and you see and comprehend that – I need a rest; I'd like one – there really isn't any way back in the opposite direction, therefore – I hate to tell you this but that dungeon, in there, that's the only thing there is and... all the way... through, or death obviously; or the worse things than that – like for instance your soul still existing in its body while its operated by a fake-soul/a demon: and that can happen. It's not something I've personally experienced, although there have been frequent experiences adjacent to that... sensation; really if you wish to call it that but – I think we should avoid that eventuality is what it is – and forgive a windy response – prolix – if I'm saying a lot but I can see you're a taciturn fellow and I haven't spoken to anyone, at all, except for some accidental swearing at demons. – I don't like to curse, for obvious rather superficial reasons, but I'm – its almost however impossible to maintain this resolution against what are demons – the point is happy to see you. Because your soul isn't fake. You are not a demon; and I appreciate that you do not wish to know who you are but you do wish to kill demons, therefore –”

“Just this. Forever –”

“I quite understand but the problem with that –”