Endless Debt Chapter 1146 - 9: Days Gone By

With a helper's support, Dennis slowly exited the train station, leaning heavily on a cane. He lifted his gaze to the colossal skyscrapers, the immense street signs, and the teeming throngs of people all around him. He found himself frozen in place, much like countless foreigners experiencing Oubos for the very first time, feeling utterly adrift in this metropolis, akin to wild creatures straying from a primeval forest into the heart of human civilization.

Dennis had never once envisioned returning to this city, and especially not to find it so drastically reshaped.

"Sir."

The escort stood close by Dennis, extending an arm to steady him. Dennis initially felt inclined to decline the aid, but his body lacked the strength to stand unaided, so he offered a polite smile and conveyed his gratitude for the assistance.

It is only in moments like these that Dennis is sharply reminded of his nonagenarian status.

"Time truly flies..."

As he surveyed the cityscape, Dennis couldn't suppress a soft murmur. He vividly recalled his last visit to this very land; it was naught but scorched earth, littered with fallen bodies, as a terrifying conflict had ravaged the region, and Dennis himself had been among its participants.

To this very day, Dennis holds those ghastly and brutal scenes firmly in his memory. In a fleeting instant, much like an illusion, he could again perceive the blood-soaked remnants of destruction. Yet, with another blink, the boundless prosperity came into view.

This locale was no longer a battlefield but a vibrant, thriving city, boasting towering edifices, dense crowds, and brilliant illuminations. It instilled within him a profound sense of bewilderment, as if time had become dislodged, as though his recollections were utterly at odds with the present reality.

Noticing the escort's perplexed expression at his side, Dennis promptly clarified, "The last time I was here, this place wasn't known as Oubos, nor did these skyscrapers pierce the sky. It was nothing more than a desolate ruin."

Dennis reminisced with a touch of fondness, "Back then, I was a young soldier, not this frail old man you see before you."

No one could possibly dispute the advanced age of Dennis. His countenance was deeply lined with wrinkles, his skin appeared loose and fragile, and his hair had all but vanished, leaving only a scattering of sparse white strands. His eyes, nestled within tired bags, seemed profoundly weary, and his lips were parched, devoid of any vitality.

Dennis's advanced age was not solely a consequence of time's relentless march; more significantly, it was the indelible trauma inflicted by war.

He had once served as a soldier, enduring numerous harrowing battles. Following the war, Dennis dedicated the remainder of his years to seeking solace for his soul, yet within his mind, the fierce combat sequences persisted, the echoes of gunfire and the cries of his comrades proving impossible to silence.

Straining with each laborious step, Dennis keenly felt the persistent ache, a cruel memento of an old injury. When a shell explosion had violently thrown him to the ground, multiple wounds had inflicted their damage, plunging him into a disorienting cycle of semi-consciousness and delirium.

That harrowing experience became a trauma etched irrevocably into the depths of Dennis's being. After the war concluded, Dennis withdrew to the countryside, never uttering a word of that period to anyone, nor participating in any military-related gatherings or activities.

Many individuals who had known Dennis for decades remained entirely unaware of his past as a soldier, nor of his involvement in the devastating Scorched Earth of Fury conflict. At times, Dennis himself felt as though those memories were beginning to fade.

It wasn't until a relatively recent period that enigmatic individuals, bearing nearly forgotten documents from that era, sought him out. Dennis found himself pondering his current relevance, a man on the precipice of existence, and what possible value he could offer to people now.

"Where are we headed next?" Dennis inquired.

"You shall simply accompany us."

The escort guided Dennis toward the roadside and opened the door of a waiting vehicle. The car's windows were heavily tinted, rendering the interior a shadowy void, which immediately stirred a sense of unease within him.

Dennis settled into the car, the door closing and locking behind him. He understood that his destiny was now entirely under the control of these individuals, yet he felt no discernible fear. He was far too advanced in years and had long since reconciled himself to the prospect of meeting the Grim Reaper, an event he had contemplated through countless days and nights.

"Greetings, Mr. Dennis."

A composed voice emanated from the darkness, causing Dennis to blink. His vision, already blurred, struggled to make out a figure within the gloom.

"You may address me as Ivan."

Ivan extended his hand, gently clasping Dennis's in a firm handshake.

"May I inquire, what is it you seek from me?" Dennis's gaze remained steady, his voice unwavering.

"Nothing of great import, merely your military experiences. Would you be willing to recount them? Particularly concerning your comrades," Ivan requested.

"They are not pleasant recollections. If it were possible..."

Ivan interjected, cutting off Dennis's hesitant words, "It is of great importance, please."

Dennis's voice wavered slightly, a sign of reluctant concession as he fell silent. His clouded eyes reflected a torrent of past events, like spectral apparitions haunting the landscape of his mind.

As the fragmented memories gradually coalesced, many indistinct visages began to form with clarity.

"Kindly grant me a moment to collect myself," Dennis spoke softly.

Ivan inclined his head in understanding, offering no further words. He comprehended Dennis's emotional state; dredging up such a past was by no means a simple undertaking.

Dennis’s comrades had largely perished years ago, and when juxtaposed with Dennis’s extended lifespan, the war itself constituted a mere fraction of his life. However, this specific period became the defining chapter of Dennis’s existence, the spectral figures he wrestled alongside in the muddy trenches indelibly imprinted upon his very soul, impossible to expunge.

"Such distant memories," Dennis softly uttered.

"According to the records, your point of origin is a place designated as Redwood Town," Ivan prompted Dennis.

"Redwood Town? Indeed, that is my ancestral home."

"Yet, following the cessation of hostilities, you did not make your way back," Ivan observed.

"That is correct."

"May I inquire as to the reason?"

Dennis’s gaze flickered, reflecting an unusual luminescence as he slowly shook his head, replying, "It ceased to exist."

"Ceased to exist?" Ivan queried.

"Redwood Town was an inconspicuous locality, possessing minimal conduits for connection with the wider world. Had it not been for the occasional passing caravans, we might have remained oblivious to the conflict raging beyond our borders. It was a place of profound seclusion."

Dennis endeavored to conjure recollections of his hometown, but beyond the image of towering, interminable trees, his memory yielded little else.

"There is no Redwood Town marked on any map, nor does the railway network traverse its vicinity. Children departing from home must rely solely on their own navigation to return. Despite the numerous scars the war inflicted upon me, the path leading back home remains etched in my mind."

"Were you successful in finding it?"

"I found it," Dennis’s voice initially gained some elevation, only to descend again, stating, "only to discover a landscape of scorched earth."

A subtle alteration crossed Ivan’s features.

"As I alluded to earlier, Redwood Town was a modest settlement. Its appearance was unheralded, and its demise went largely unnoticed," Dennis recounted with a dispassionate tone, his past wounds having long since become desensitized, inflicting no further pain.

"It possessed exceptionally abundant forest resources; upon my return, the Redwood Forest had been felled extensively, leaving behind nothing but barren ground littered with tree stumps. The town I once knew was reduced to mere ruined walls, resembling the derelict structures often encountered across the desolate plains... the war had reached this remote corner. It stands to reason; this was the Scorched Earth of Fury, a cataclysm that swept across the globe, how could a small town possibly escape its wrath?"

"And what course of action did you pursue thereafter?"

Dennis responded, "I attempted to locate any survivors, but the townsfolk were few in number, not to mention that the younger men had already been conscripted for the war. After years of relentless searching, it dawned upon me that perhaps I was the sole individual left who remembered Redwood Town. Despite the overwhelming sorrow, I understood I had to press onward. Consequently, I journeyed to a different city, endeavoring to forge a new existence there."

"Did you achieve success in establishing this new life?"

"Perhaps."

Ivan meticulously documented their exchange in his notebook, sensing that the prevailing atmosphere was now sufficiently conducive to broach the core subject.

"Bologue Lazarus."

Ivan suddenly uttered Bologue’s name. Instantly, the temperature within the vehicle plummeted. Ivan’s acute professional instincts detected Dennis’s immediate physiological shift: an accelerated heart rate, a rise in blood pressure, a slight tremor in his fingers, beads of perspiration forming on his skin, his eyes darting about uncontrollably, his breathing becoming shallow and rapid—these were subtle yet unmistakable indicators to a trained observer.

Aware of the need to proceed, Ivan once more displayed Bologue’s photograph, posing the question.

"Do you recall him?"

Dennis’s unfocused eyes locked onto Bologue’s image within the photograph. He had never anticipated, after the passage of so many years, that he would once again hear Bologue’s name or behold his face.

The persistent nightmare that had plagued him throughout his life had returned, now terrifyingly close.

A faint, dim light flickered within Ivan’s eyes, his voice imbued with a captivating, almost hypnotic quality, resonating directly into Dennis’s ears.

"Speak, Dennis. Tell me something."