“So, what’s your question today?” he asked, his voice drifting like a reed flute over still water.

The musician wore his usual pale smile, a wash of color light as diluted ink.

He smoothed the hem of his lab coat like flattening a paper sail, then settled across from me on the sofa like a cat in a sunpatch.

His gray hair was tied into a loose bundle, a rope frayed between strict order and casual mess, easy as a breeze through bamboo.

That smile looked like a mask carved to suggest kindness, a lantern hung to guide strangers, staged yet not abrasive like soft rain on stone.

Instead, it amused me like a spark in dry tinder, and I felt curiosity curl like smoke in my chest.

“Mm, I want… wait, when did you get here?” I asked, tossing out the question like a pebble into a pond.

“For a drink,” he said, letting the words flow like wine from a tilted bottle. “After the set, I took the narrow path by the glass, like a fox skirting hedges.”

“I slipped past the server collecting glasses and a first-time student, both stiff as new reeds, like a fish weaving between reeds.”

“I crouched by the artificial rock garden like a heron hiding in rushes, and dodged a lady who’s been after me lately like a bee chasing nectar.”

“I walked to this table, saw a Martini waiting like a star in a shallow pool, knew it was mine, sat, and drank my break like dusk sipping the heat.”

“And I casually handled a customer who lives to make trouble, like patting down a rumpled tablecloth.”

“Hey, hey, that sounds harsh,” I said, tossing up my hands like leaves in a gust.

“But sir—” he lifted a finger like a conductor’s baton—“you didn’t come in confusion like fog, and you’re not trapped in obsession like a fly in amber.”

“You didn’t come for answers, just amusement, like stones skipped for ripples, to feed the bar’s tills with my time like grain to a mill.”

He refused with a graceful tilt of the head like a crane, while sipping the drink I paid for like rain taking a roof.

He was good at reading minds like weather from clouds, pushing only to the brink like toes at a cliff.

Or rather, he was a man with a ruler in his bones, measuring distance, scale, and line like a surveyor on a plain.

“Mm. Today I want to ask about ‘life’,” I said, dropping the word like a coin into a well.

“A satisfying life?” he asked, the phrase hovering like incense. “Satisfying others, or satisfying yourself, like moonlight or firelight?”

“Or both—satisfying everyone, like harvest after rain?”

“The last one,” I said. “Let’s hear it,” I added, tapping the table like rain taps eaves.

“Mm—” he murmured, touching his chin like testing a blade, where no beard grew like a snowless slope.

“Let’s put it this way,” he said, laying the words like stones across a stream. “We can take another route instead of me just preaching.”

“Explore?” I asked, letting the word flutter like a moth to flame.

“Yeah,” he said. “There’s no standard answer here, like rivers without a single mouth. We can only discuss, like birds trading calls.”

I shrugged like a coat slipping off a peg, meaning whatever.

He slouched into the sofa like a tired willow, his glass cupped like a small moon in both hands.

“Because satisfying ‘yourself’ and satisfying ‘others’ are two rivers,” he said, drawing a split in the air like a branch. “We’ll split them.”

“Start with what others approve, like a fenced field, then look for the right sprout inside,” he said, planting the plan like a seed.

“Fine,” I said, letting my voice ripple like wind over wheat.

“All right, time for my performance,” he said, clapping once like a firecracker in fog.

“First up, the ‘protagonist’,” he said, lifting the word like a banner in wind.

“How so?” I asked, the question sharp as a pebble striking bamboo.

“Immature, yet time tempers him like sun hardens clay; indecisive, yet time steels him like frost bites iron; irrational, yet time makes him think like winter clarifies water.”

“A person with an ordinary heart and superhuman power, like a village well feeding a thunderstorm,” he said. “He hesitates and errs, like footprints across mud, and grows in setback like pine on a cliff.”

“Do you think ‘you’ could live that life and feel satisfied, like a cup filled to the brim?”

“Objection!” I raised my hand like a schoolboy waving a flag, a grin flickering like a match.

“Answer—‘yes’,” I said. “But why must he have ‘superhuman power,’ like a mountain strapped to his back?”

“Can’t ordinary strength win recognition, like a candle in a window?”

“Of course not,” he said, the smile clean as a knife on whetstone. “This world is strict with people, like winter with blossoms.”

“Without power—without talent past the lines—ordinary folk get no room for error, like tightrope walkers over thorns.”

“They don’t get the arc of ‘mistake then growth,’ like seasons skipping spring.”

“Weak ones who can’t be protagonists tiptoe like cats on ice, always afraid the lake will crack.”

“One mistake costs them dearly, like a boat holed at sea, and they can’t pull a miracle comeback like a ‘protagonist’ rising from a ravine.”

“This world has no spare attention for the plain and ordinary, like crows ignored against a gray sky.”

The story’s hero, the crowd’s vessel of hope, goes through legends high as peaks and far as deserts, and brings back beauties, treasure, and strength like spoils of a dragon hunt.

It’s dull, yet classic, like bread and salt; dull, yet satisfying, like tea at dawn.

The musician’s voice stretched and softened like a sutra bell, half sermon, half lullaby, easy to sit with like shade at noon.

I thought it over like sorting stones from beans, found no obvious fault, and nodded for him to go on like a lantern waved twice.

“Second type: the ‘supporting character’,” he said, placing the term like a chess piece.

“Sounds no different from the protagonist,” I said, my tone dry as straw.

“Listen closely,” he said, shaking his head like a rattle. “A supporting character is a ‘failed protagonist,’ like a bud that never opens.”

“Isn’t that just an ordinary person?” I asked, flicking the thought like a gnat.

“No, no,” he said, shaking harder like a willow in wind. “They did the same things as the hero, poured in the same effort, bled the same blood—yet still didn’t succeed, like rain missing the field.”

“That’s not satisfying,” I said, the words dropping like cold hail.

“What if they’re satisfied with that?” he asked, eyes calm as a still pool.

“I still don’t see how that’s different from ‘ordinary’,” I said, brow furrowing like plowed earth.

“Ordinary means no brush with legend or greatness, the midpoint of right and wrong, a rule-follower like a well-laid road,” he said.

“The supporting character is the same as the hero in everything except the final failure, like a candle that guttered at dawn. That’s all.”

“Objection,” I said, not bothering to raise my hand, letting it fall like a spent leaf.

“That’s no different from the protagonist,” I said, the complaint clean as a cut.

“Accepting glory as your due is one thing,” he said. “Accepting defeat with self-mockery and calm is another, like salt and snow.”

“Winners and losers—clearly not the same kind of people, like hawks and hens.”

“Many ‘supporting characters’ will even help the ‘protagonist’ reach the far shore, then smile from behind like a lantern left on a pier.”

“That largeness lets ‘self’ and ‘others’ both get satisfaction, like a field feeding two flocks.”

“As for what kind of satisfaction… you get it, right?” he finished, his tone cool as shade.

His mockery made me want to cold-smile with him, like iron answering iron.

Meaning: they do nameless deeds, have power and talent yet can’t unfurl it, then pretend not to care, like a cloak thrown over a wound.

That lets the ordinary offer lofty pity like eagles from a cliff, feeds their shabby pride like scraps to a stray, and gives both sides a form of satisfaction like a cheap treaty.

It’s satisfaction brimming with jealousy and venom, like sweet wine mixed with snake bile.

But personally, I didn’t hate it, like rain after dust.

“Mm… maybe. ‘Acceptable,’” I said, tilting the scale like a vendor. “Next, let me guess… are you going to say ‘antagonist’?”

His smile didn’t change, calm as a painted moon, no ripple of emotion like a lake in frost.

“Ah, spot on,” he said, clapping once like a sparrow. “Yes, ‘antagonist.’ I saved what you most want for last, like dessert after spice. Happy?”

“Cut the fluff,” I said, glancing at the clock like a sundial. “I’m in a hurry. I’ll leave after this.”

“Is that so? A pity,” he said, sighing like wind through chimes. “I wanted to add a few marvels, like fireworks behind a curtain.”

I couldn’t help it; the hour pushed like a tide.

Behind me to the right, someone opened a newspaper like a gull spreading wings, and lifted a glass with a crisp clink like ice kissing a bell.

I guessed it was a Heretic Inquisitor’s standard steel claw tapping glass, like iron on crystal in a cold chapel.

Straight ahead, behind the musician, threads of Divine Art quivered like spider silk in dawn.

Power belonging to a Divine Being rose like light mist, weaving a thin net around me like a dew-web over reeds.

It was subtle to most, but to me it reeked like a slaughterhouse in heat; I’m far more sensitive to Divine Art than ordinary folks, like a hound to blood.

The musician likely didn’t feel it, but he reads rooms like wind reads grass; his fingers drummed the orc war song “Night Raid” on the table like hooves at midnight.

“I’ll be blunt,” he said. “An antagonist’s life that satisfies everyone stands opposite the protagonist, like shadow to flame.”

“…They won’t target you,” I said, keeping my voice low like moss underfoot. “Relax.”

He nodded one of those maybe-nods, like a bird half-asleep, as if a thought ripened in fog like a fig in shade.

“An antagonist does what fits his station,” he said, stressing the words like a hammer on brass. “He tramples others’ pride for sport, like boots in wet clay.”

“He takes everything for desire, like a tide swallowing a sandcastle; sometimes for nothing at all, he watches his own carnage like winter watching leaves, unmoved.”

“He’s like a natural disaster, devouring every innocent who comes close, like a wildfire eating dry hills.”

He leaned on “fits his station” like a finger on a bruise, and I frowned like a stormline on the horizon.

“Objection,” I said, the word snapping like a twig. “That proves nothing.”

“Must antagonists only do the kind of evil anyone can spot at a glance, like a wolf in a henhouse?”

“Evil is vast, like an ocean; confining it to a puddle is small-time thug work, like knives clattering in an alley.”

“Listen,” he said, palm up like a leaf. “My ‘antagonist’ is the one who bears blame and censure, like a lightning rod in a storm.”

“Whatever the cause or true heart, people think the ‘antagonist’ should do repulsive things, and they do, like actors hitting their marks.”

“Everyone sits in their proper place, like stones in a wall—toward self, toward others, each seat fits, and they’re satisfied like boots on the right feet.”

“Flip it,” he said. “If someone steps out—say, the antagonist resolves to save the world like rain in drought, and the Hero accidentally destroys a town like a bull in a shrine—then the familiar world jumps the rails.”

“That’s someone failing their role, like a drum beating off-tempo.”

People always think the world will run on like a mill, Demon King down, Hero victorious, like day chasing night.

Because for hundreds of years it’s been like that, like a river carving a groove.

They don’t know it’s coincidence stacked like cairns of miracles, one rock on another till it teeters.

Turning the Hero and the Demon King, the protagonist and the antagonist, into mere symbols is stupid, like mistaking flags for wind; it’s a miracle the world hasn’t fallen in like a rotten bridge.

“If you ask me, none of those lives satisfy me,” I said, the words cold as rain on coals.

It’s like a stencil cut in advance, and stepping over the line is a foul, like paint outside the frame.

Lay it over real life, and the lives he named feel rotten, like fruit bruised inside; how can these be ‘satisfying’ lives?

“Haha. I knew you’d say that,” he laughed, light as sleet on tile. “There’s your answer already, like a fish jumping into your net.”

“What I listed are ideals in the minds of people who aren’t satisfied with their own life, like dream gardens behind locked gates.”

Real satisfaction differs from theory like soil from a map; it varies by person like weather by valley; there’s no standard answer, as I said at the start, like a bell echoing itself.

“Come on,” I said, flicking my fingers like rain. “So there’s no conclusion at all?”

“I told you,” he said. “Language has limits like a cup’s rim; no line wakes the world like thunder, no classic quote pierces every heart like an arrow.”

“Mostly it’s two fools thinking they understand each other, like shadows nodding at dusk.”

“At least, if you look inward, you get this: in the end, choose a life where your own satisfaction takes priority, like steering by your own star.”

It’s not “what life satisfies people,” like a recipe cast in bronze.

It’s “do what satisfies you, and live that way,” like walking your own path under your own sky.

“Still not satisfied?” he asked, peering like a cat through leaves.

“Mm. Not satisfied with that answer,” I said, the words dry as old bark.

“Ah, hard man to serve,” he said, smiling like a crescent moon. “Fine.”

“Hold to the direction you want, like a mast to wind. You’re right,” he said.

“Not allowing soft whining is your creed, isn’t it, like a sword that won’t bend?”

“Yeah, true,” I said, rubbing my brow like rain on slate. “Though I don’t recall telling you…”

“Fine, fine, you guessed again,” I said, exhaling like steam. “My mind’s been off lately like birds in a storm.”

“I do need someone to encourage me, to say what I’m doing is worth it, like a lamp relit at midnight.”

“That isn’t whining, right? Just resonance between people, like two strings humming together.”

“Joke,” he said, laughing like pebbles in a brook. “Even if I said nothing, you’d power through like a mule on a mountain path.”

“True,” I said. “Though it fouls my mood for a long while, like smoke in a room… but how did you know?”

“I guessed,” he said, as always, the word neat as a coin. “Did I guess right, like an arrow to the mark?”

“…You did,” I said, nodding like a stalk in wind.

I stood up, my earlier storm of thoughts already settled like silt before he sat, yet the dark part lingers like a fine drizzle.

It keeps me doubting myself like a worm in fruit, soft but deep.

He’d only tossed me a casual agreement, like a leaf on water, yet it swept most of the gloom like a broom across dust.

I should thank him, like bowing to rain after drought.

But I didn’t want to leave without winning once, like a gambler craving one clean hand.

“By the way,” I said. “You don’t seem to like Martinis,” I tossed out, light as a feather.

“No, I do,” he said, smiling like a lantern. “I like them,” he added, voice smooth as silk.

“But you drink it like water,” I said, pointing with a glance like a sparrow’s beak.

“Because I also like water,” he said, gentle as spring.

He smiled so softly it felt like velvet over ice, and a chill slid down my back like a lizard.

“Both are admirable,” he said. “Both are delicious,” he added, each word placed like pearls.

He answered like that, and the reply sat between us like a quiet moon.

“…,” I breathed, the silence heavy as snow.

I lost the urge to beat him, or even the desire, like a flame going to ember.

I didn’t want to say anything more; I only wanted to leave, to step away from what I felt was out of bounds, like backing from a cliff’s edge.

He wasn’t inside his so-called “ordinary people’s ideal,” like a fish not in any net.

He claims equal regard, all things equal, like rain blessing every field, and it’s too much, like sweetness past ripe.

He’s satisfied with any treatment, finds everything tasty, thinks any place comfortable, like moss at home on stone or bark.

It’s simply—ominous, like a shadow that doesn’t move when the sun does.

Relief rolled over me like cool rain as I pushed out of the little tavern’s door.

I let out a breath and wore a wry, self-mocking smile, a thin crack on still water.

"People like that... actually exist," I murmured, the words drifting like smoke from a snuffed candle.

His line—living is proof—finally sank in like dark ink seeping into rice paper.