Baston froze the moment Zimus threw his arms forward for a second time.
For a brief moment, he thought the old man had truly lost his mind. The embrace came without warning. It was desperate and fervent as though Zimus had grasped something far beyond the reason and could not contain it within himself.
Fortunately, it was only the puppet.
Had it been his real body, Baston was certain his reaction would have been far less restrained. His instincts alone would have forced him to push the old man away. As it was, he merely guided the puppet with deliberate stiffness, attempting to disengage without drawing suspicion.
A strange thought flickered across his mind which was unwelcome and unnecessary. He soon dismissed it immediately.
"What happened to you?" the man asked and his voice was measured.
"I… I finally understand everything, my lord!"
Zimus stood up and his face was lit with an almost feverish clarity. His eyes shone too brightly as if it was reflecting something unseen.
"It depends on me…" the old man continued and his voice was trembling with conviction, "Whether I allow God to exist in my heart. If I doubt Him, then He is absent. If I accept Him, then He is always with me… guiding me… strengthening me."
The man stared at him for a moment, trying to find the suitable words for the response.
"Yes… exactly," he replied after a pause.
He did not understand what enlightenment the old man had but Zimus did not seem to require understanding. He only needed affirmation.
For a few minutes, neither of them spoke.
The cave seemed quieter than before, not simply in sound but in presence. Even the faint dripping of water from the stone above felt distant as though the space itself had withdrawn.
Baston studied Zimus more carefully through the puppet. There was something unusual in the old man's expression.
It was not just relief and not just conviction.
It was alignment as if the scattered pieces within him had suddenly fallen into place, forming a pattern that had always existed but had never been seen.
"How long have you felt this?" the man asked.
Zimus blinked, slightly startled by the question.
"I… I don't know," he admitted, "Perhaps it was always there."
He pressed a hand against his chest, "I just simply refused to see it."
The man narrowed his eyes slightly. That answer was too convenient or perhaps, too understanding.
People did not change so quickly. Not without the resistance and not without the doubt that was clawing at the edges of their thoughts.
"Do you not question it?" the man asked.
Zimus hesitated this time but only briefly, "I did at first..."
His gaze drifted toward the cave entrance, "But when I stood at the edge of death… there was nothing left to question."
The words settled in the air and Baston felt something shift in his thoughts. It was his own awareness that converted him.
The near death experiences often distorted the perception. They sharpened certain truths while erasing the others. What remained could feel absolute even if it was not.
Still, Zimus's certainty felt too stable to be fragile. It was almost as if it had been reinforced.
"However, my lord…" Zimus hesitated though the light in his eyes did not dim, "My wealth may not be enough. What I wish to build, it will require far more than I possess. I fear I may fail you…"
"What do you intend to build?" the man asked.
"My own estate," Zimus said more steadily now, "A place where people may gather, not for the vice, but for the purpose. There will be work, entertainment, and honest trade. It will be a chance for those who have fallen to stand again."
He lowered his gaze slightly, "After what we have destroyed… There is emptiness but within that emptiness, there is an opportunity."
The man watched him in the silence before he said calmly, "Look behind you..."
Zimus frowned and confused before turning slowly. What awaited him was the impossible.
Piled neatly upon the cave floor were the stacks of money. It was bundled, ordered, and far too abundant to belong in such a place. The dim light caught on their edges, turning the heap into something almost unreal.
Zimus did not move and for several seconds, he simply stared before his knees weakened, "It's a miracle…"
His voice was barely audible. To him, there could be no other explanation but a miracle from the above.
To Baston, it was nothing more than a mechanism which was a function of the old book, a space where several objects could be stored and retrieved at will.
It was convenient, useful, and predictable.
Yet, even as he watched Zimus approach the wealth with trembling hands, a quiet unease settled in his thoughts.
The wealth did not purify people. It only revealed the truth within them. For an instant, he considered taking the money back. It was not out of caution for Zimus but for the reaction itself.
He watched closely as the old man reached forward. His fingers were brushing against the surface of the bundled money. The contact was slow and almost reverent as if he feared it might vanish the moment he acknowledged it.
Thankfully, it did not. The money remained and it was real plus heavy.
Zimus picked up one bundle then another.
His breathing changed into subtle but noticeable. It did not become faster and erratic. He slowly controlled his craziness into a new hope.
The reaction alone caught Baston's attention.
Most people, when faced with sudden wealth, lost themselves in it even if only briefly. There would be excitement, disbelief, and greed. Such expression always surfaced.
However, the old man contained it as though he had already decided what the money meant before even touching it.
"Strange…" Zimus murmured.
"What is it?" the man asked.
Zimus frowned slightly, turning the bundle in his hand, "I thought… I would feel something different."
"Different?" the man echoed.
"Yes…" Zimus said slowly, "I though such a lot of money will become intoxicating."
He shook his head, "In the end, it feels the same. Somehow, it doesn't excite me anymore."
The statement lingered. Baston felt a faint unease because that was not normal.
After all, money always felt different and that was its nature. It could distort the value and it could shift the perception. Even though so, the old man neglected such sense.
Zimus began counting and his movements were growing steadier with each bundle that he touched. The initial shock faded, replaced by the calculation before by something heavier.
It was a concern toward such a big amount.
"This… is too much," Zimus muttered and his expression hardened, "If the others see this… it will not end well."
The man said nothing. The old man exhaled slowly as though steadying himself against an unseen pressure.
"I will leave it here for now," he decided, "It will be hidden and secured until I can move it safely."
There was caution in his voice but also restraint. It was not the reaction that Baston had expected.
"Thank you, my lord," Zimus said while bowing deeply, "With this, I can restore what was lost. I can give them back their dignity."
His tone shifted to become quieter and more resolute, "I will not allow them to return to that life."
"It is good that you think so," the man replied before his gaze drifted toward the cave entrance, "It is time for me to leave."
"My lord, wait..."
Zimus stepped forward quickly, "If it is not too much to ask… will you come with me? Let the people see you… Let them understand that God is always within them…"
The man simply shook his head, "I cannot..."
There was no hesitation in his refusal. It made the old man disappointed but he realized that he could not force him anyway.
"If you wish them to know God," he continued, "Then you must follow His commandments."
"Commandments?"
The man paused. Actually, Baston had not planned this far. For a brief moment, the silence lingered between them which became thin and uncertain.
Then, with a subtle motion of magic, the man turned toward a flat surface of stone nearby. Several lines began to carve themselves into it, precise and deliberate as though it was guided by an invisible hand.
The words formed one after another. Zimus watched and held his breath. When it was finished, he stepped closer and began to read it aloud.
Each line echoed softly within the cave, carrying a weight that seemed to deepen with every word.
By the time he reached the last, the silence that followed felt heavier than before.
Baston observed him carefully through the puppet.
He searched for the doubt, hesitation, and the slightest fracture in belief but Zimus only lowered his head, clutching the stone as though it was something sacred.
"This is worth more than all the gold in this world."
That answer unsettled Baston more than any other. However, he said nothing. Instead, a brilliant white light began to gather around the puppet, swallowing its form piece by piece.
"Until we meet again…" the man said.
Zimus tried to look up but the light was too intense. When it faded, the figure was gone and only the silent cave remained.
The money still lay where it had been placed and the stone tablet rested firmly in his grasp. Zimus stepped outside slowly.
The rain had ceased and the air was still.
For a moment, he stood there in silence as though listening for something that no longer spoke.
Then, without looking back, he began walking toward the town.
*****
High above, a small bird circled around and its dark eyes followed Zimus's every movement.
From a distance, Baston watched through it, ensuring the old man's safe return. The transformation had been seamless. The puppet reduced, reshaped, and repurposed into something inconspicuous.
Only when the old man neared the town gates did he finally withdraw.
The connection with his puppet faded and with it, the tension in his mind eased.
*****
By the time Baston returned to the inn, the exhaustion had settled deep within his body.
The innkeeper noticed his state but chose not to speak.
He went to his room without a word and the sleep came quickly. When he awoke, the night had already fallen and the silence felt different at this time.
It was not empty but it felt distant as though the town itself had shifted while he rested.
Stepping into the lobby, he immediately noticed the change.
The innkeeper stood behind the counter, dressed far more brightly than before.
"Good evening, young master," she said warmly, "Will you be having a dinner?"
"Yes…" Baston replied though his attention lingered on her attire, "Something seems different about you."
Her smile widened, "There is a celebration tonight. The town has gathered in the square."
"A celebration?"
"Yes... The thugs are gone and people are relieved. Do you want to take a look?"
There was something beneath her words, something unspoken about relief. There was also an anticipation inside the tone.
"I will go to take a look," he said after a moment.
*****
The streets were emptier than expected.
The shops were closed, the doors were left unattended, and everyone had gone.
By the time Baston reached the town center, the air was filled with noise. It was full of laughter, music, and voices that were layered over one another.
Yet beneath it all, he sensed something else.
It was an undercurrent. The celebration was genuine but it was not simple.
He slowed down his steps.
The noise around him was lively, chaotic, and filled with overlapping voices and careless joy but beneath it, there was a rhythm that did not quite match the surface.
He watched as the people spoke to one another.
There was short exchanges and quick laughter yet their gazes shifted often toward the center of the square as if something there held their attention even when they tried to ignore it.
A group of men stood near a stall, speaking in low tones.
"He said it himself?"
"I heard it from the others. They were there at that time…"
"And you believe that?"
"I don't know..."
That answer repeated itself in different forms across the square. Somehow, there was hesitation in the lingering conversation.
Baston moved past them and his expression was unchanged. Then, he noticed something else.
Near the edges of the gathering, several people stood apart from the celebration. They did not join the laughter nor did they partake in the food. Their attention was fixed in a single direction.
They were waiting and he did not need to guess what were they looking because at the center, Zimus would soon appear.
A faint pressure settled in the air. It was subtle and almost imperceptible but once noticed, it could not be ignored.
It reminded him of something. Toward the sage perception that he suddenly embraced just to convince the old man.
"Interesting…" he muttered under his breath.
He moved through the crowd, accepting the food without much thought while his attention was drawn elsewhere.
Zimus stood at the center with the stone tablet that was raised before him. People gathered close, listening to the old man.
"God really exists…" Zimus declared, "I have seen His will…"
His voice carried the statement strongly. It was unwavering toward new conviction. The questions followed and the doubts surfaced.
Zimus did not reject them since he welcomed them. That, more than anything, held the crowd.
Someone suddenly spoke louder than the rest, "What about your brothel?"
The atmosphere shifted. It was subtle but immediate. After all, everyone could talk but did not dare to do what they had been preaching.
"If you truly believe Him…" the man continued, "Then you must abandon it."
The silence spread and Baston watched closely.
This was the moment when Zimus looked upward. He stared at the sky beyond toward the miracle that had saved him.
His expression did not waver, "Do you want to hear my answer?"