The murmurs of dismay turned into a chorus of surprise and incomprehension as I told them of my decision. Faces contorted into a mingled expression of disbelief and disappointment, while some were still trying to find the words to convince me.
"Wait, what? Why aren't you going to help us?" someone asked, looking incredulous.
Another added, trying to sound convincing: "But together, we can do it! Don't you want us all to succeed?"
Their actions were tinged with desperation, with that futile hope of rallying me to their cause despite my firm resolve. They tried to coax me with gestures that transpired lies, words imbued with palpable hypocrisy.
They invoked collective solidarity, as if this notion could suddenly change my vision of things. They insisted on the importance of working together, of uniting in the face of adversity, as if the sole purpose of this riddle was to bring us together.
"I'm sure it does, think it through. We can do this together!" said a voice full of pleading.
Yet I could see through their facade, through their desperate attempts at manipulation. Their words sounded hollow, insincere, and I refused to be fooled by their artifice.
I looked at the crowd in front of me, each one desperately trying to convince me to help them. Their pleas, though tinged with false hopes and empty promises, might have touched someone else, but not me. Because I knew, deep down, that we're all hypocrites.
We humans are gifted in the art of hypocrisy. We play different roles depending on the circumstances, hiding behind masks of kindness or compassion when it suits us, and discarding those masks as soon as our own interests are threatened. And I'm no different. I can't afford to blame these people for their hypocrisy, when I know I'm just as guilty.
Each of us has our own hidden motivations, our own unacknowledged secrets. We're all actors in this great theater of life, playing our roles with conviction, even though deep down we know they're all lies.
So I refuse to play the role of benevolent hero, the savior of the crowd in distress. I prefer to tell the truth, even if it's raw and unpleasant to hear. I refuse to hide behind rhetoric and pretense. If I can't be sincere, then I'd rather not say anything at all.
So there I stood, impassive, watching the crowd struggle with their own hypocrisy, knowing that I didn't want to help them, but also knowing that I had no regrets about it.
I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of their insistent stares on me. "Look," I began in a firm but calm voice, "there are two reasons why I can't give you the solution." Although there was also a third... I simply didn't want to help them.
I held up two fingers to illustrate my points. "Firstly, as the childish voice said, there are only nine places available to try and solve the riddle. So, even if I wanted to share the solution, how would you do it? Would you pick the most deserving? Are you going to fight for victory? Even if I shared the answer with you, there's no way you'd emerge victorious."
I paused, letting my words penetrate their minds before continuing. "Secondly, remember what Kaisho told me when I offered him the monster food. He said that whoever volunteered to drink the sea water would receive his help in return. That means Kaisho may have a better solution to this problem than I do."
I scanned their faces, looking for a reaction to my words. "So, not only can I not guarantee your inclusion in solving the riddle, but it's possible that there's a more effective alternative already in the works. Right Kaisho?"
Kaisho responded to my provocation with insults, hurling scathing remarks at my previous attitude.
"You bastard! That's why you were laughing at my words earlier!"
But strangely enough, I was feeling fine. Despite the palpable tension and furious stares surrounding me, I felt strangely calm.
It wasn't often that I found myself in such tense situations, but for some reason I felt protected, as if an invisible force were covering me with its reassuring cloak. I was always a little uncomfortable in social interactions, but at this moment, I felt strangely able to cope with any situation.
Yet, as I savored this feeling of serenity, I was suddenly drawn out of my thoughts by the presence of someone who had approached me without my realizing it. My heart beat faster in my chest as I felt the cold blade of his weapon at my throat, his gaze burning with rage fixed on me.
"You're going to die you bastard!"
In a tension-laden silence, the individual who had threatened me with his weapon maintained his cold gaze, his menacing blade still pointed at me. I froze, unable to move, overwhelmed by the adrenalin pulsing through my veins. I waited for the inevitable, convinced that my end was near.
Yet, against all odds, a figure appeared from nowhere to stand between me and my assailant. It was neither Saé nor Edano. It was Ryo Kanjo, that enigmatic antagonist from the film I'd watched with Saé who had become real. He was there, in front of me, real, imposing, his presence filled with charisma and strength.
Ryo Kanjo held a sword he'd unlocked through his secondary riddle, a symbol of his newly acquired power. His intense gaze swept the scene, as if assessing every detail of the situation. I stood there, stunned by his unexpected presence and the stark contrast between the shadow of his stories and his tangible form before me.
In icy calm, Ryo Kanjo broke the heavy silence with his firm, authoritative voice, a striking contrast to the electric atmosphere that reigned. His words were imbued with icy assurance, exuding a palpable aura of danger that permeated the atmosphere.
"Withdraw, or you'll regret it," he told my assailant in a voice devoid of any emotion, but carrying an underlying threat so tangible that even the air seemed to freeze around us.
It was impossible not to feel dominated by his imposing presence. With his legendary sword, the Excalibur of Terror, forged in the depths of the trials he had endured, and his long black cloak billowing behind him, Ryo exuded an intimidating aura worthy of the greatest heroes - or rather, the most formidable antagonists.
My assailant, struck by the coldness of Ryo's words and the power emanating from him, froze in place, powerless in the face of this undeniable force. Ryo reinforced his order with an icy stare, urging everyone to return to their occupations as night crept inexorably onwards.
In a burst of levity after the tense moment, I tried a joke in Ryo's direction, hoping to lighten the mood.
"Thanks for your help. By the way... Am I mistaken or have you put on muscles since we last met?"
However, instead of a smile or a knowing laugh, Ryo reacted in a totally different way. His piercing gaze hardened instantly, and he hurled a blood-curdling threat at me
"You pervert, if you try to look under my clothes again, I'll kill you too!"
This past situation had obviously left its mark on him.
Then I remembered that there was a specific reason why Ryo had interfered. His distant, threatening attitude reminded me that, despite appearances, we were not friends, and that his motives remained as obscure as his impenetrable gaze.
In the relative calm that followed, the cave seemed to resume its usual activity, but anxiety still hung in the air. The enigma had not been solved, and everyone knew it.
As I scanned the faces turning away from me, trying to understand the general mood, my eyes fell on Ishikawa. His expression, usually one of leadership, betrayed deep reflection. It was clear that he was just as distraught as the others about the continuing situation.
I decided to approach him, hoping to strike up a conversation that might give him a better understanding of what was going on.
"Hi Ishikawa, would you have a few minutes to spare for me?" I offered, seeking to exchange a few words in this moment of precarious calm.