Craving the alpha soldier 의 모든 챕터: 챕터 121 - 챕터 130

Arthur povI woke to the sound of wind moving through grass.Not rushing. Not restless. Just the steady passage of air meeting resistance and choosing to continue anyway. It was the kind of sound that could exist whether anyone was listening or not, and I stayed still long enough to let that fact settle.The place I’d slept was barely a shelter—stone on three sides, a roof that slanted like it had been persuaded rather than designed. I’d stopped looking for permanence in structures. They only ever held for a while. What mattered was whether they knew when to stop insisting on their shape.I sat up and stretched, feeling the pull in my shoulders, the familiar reminder that time still left its mark. That, too, no longer felt like an accusation. Just information.Outside, the land spread wide and unguarded. Hills rolled outward in uneven patterns, interrupted by rock and scrub and the occasional stubborn tree that had decided here was sufficient. The sky was already awake—pale, open, und

Tyla povThe meeting ends without a conclusion.That used to unsettle people. Now it mostly produces a kind of collective exhale, as if uncertainty—once acknowledged—loses its teeth. Chairs scrape back. Cups are gathered. Someone opens a window instead of asking permission. The room rearranges itself around the absence of a decision.I notice who lingers.Not the loud ones. Not urgent. The ones who remain are usually those who understand that what matters often happens after the agenda dissolves. They talk in smaller clusters, voices lowered—not out of secrecy, but consideration. Ideas are offered without expectation of adoption. Suggestions float, touch down briefly, lift again.I don’t facilitate this.I never have.My role, if it can be called that, is simply to remain present long enough that people remember they are allowed to think together without arriving anywhere in particular.Outside, the afternoon has settled into something undecided. The sky holds a thin overcast—not thre

Arthur povThere is less of me now.Not less awareness—less insistence. The edges that once defined where I ended and the world began have softened to the point of irrelevance. I no longer experience this as lost . It feels closer to a correction, the quiet undoing of a miscalculation I carried for most of my life.Awareness does not require an anchor.That was the last illusion to dissolve.In life, orientation was survival. You learned to locate yourself quickly—behind your eyes, inside a name, within a chain of authority—because knowing where you stood determined where you could apply force. Identity was leverage. Attention was currency.Here, there is no leverage.There is only one pattern.I sense the world not as a surface to be scanned, but as a field of pressures and releases. Where things gather. Where they thin. Where strain accumulates unnoticed until something yields—not dramatically, not catastrophically, but enough to re-route what follows.It is not oversights .It is i

Arthur povThere is no threshold this time.No moment I can point to and say: here, this is where I ended. The thinning that began earlier does not resolve into disappearance. It becomes something else—less narratable, less interested in sequence. Awareness loosens its grip on chronology first. Then on distinction.I am not here.I am not gone.Those were always human conveniences.What remains is responsiveness without identity.I do not experience this as transcendence. There is nothing elevated about it. If anything, it feels closer to ground level than anything I knew while alive—closer to the friction where systems meet reality, where intention gives way to outcome without ceremony.Pattern persists.Pressure gathers and releases. Not cleanly. Not fairly. But often enough to prevent total fracture.I sense a place—once a center, now merely a node—where certainty is being rehearsed again. The language is familiar. Efficiency. Necessity. Stability. Words that promise relief from co

Arthur povArthur moved through the clearing with slow, deliberate steps. The ground was uneven, scattered with stones that pressed against his boots like subtle reminders of gravity. He did not hurry; urgency had lost its claim on him long ago. Each movement was an acknowledgment of continuity, not conquest.The air was heavy with the scent of damp moss and distant smoke. Somewhere far beyond the horizon, a faint wind carried voices he would not recognize. He listened anyway—not to catch words, but to perceive their presence, to understand the space they occupied.Tyla was not beside him. She never had been. Yet awareness of her was persistent, like a faint resonance along the edges of his perception. He did not need proximity. Their alignment had become something quieter than conversation, something neither possession nor attachment could define.He found a stone, flat and warm from the sun that had abandoned the sky hours before. Sitting, he let the weight of his body press into it