Part 9: Ruinas Gloriosas

On that pitch-black night, Recoleta sees no one.
Recoleta: Why am I back in the desert? Where did Hunting go?
Gaucho Rider: You've drunk the poisoned wine, Recoleta. A treacherous scheme of the cave dwellers.
Gaucho Rider: It's the venom of the ouroboros's fangs, severing the cause-and-effect leading us to the Ruinas Gloriosas.
In her mind, her own voice echoes.
Gaucho Rider: They tried to stop us, but fortunately, they didn't know that we are one and the same.
Gaucho Rider: I left Directrices de Metáforas in your notebook. It will lead you to the final ending.
Recoleta: You took the poison for me? But why? Why did you sacrifice yourself? Haven't you longed to see the victory of our great movement?
Gaucho Rider: No more questions. It was a necessary sacrifice.
Gaucho Rider: I did it for us. Now, go. Save our comrades and see this journey through to the very end!
Recoleta: I understand now. The comrade you're talking about is Hunting, isn't it?
Recoleta: I need to find the Ruinas Gloriosas and free her.
Recoleta snaps back to reality, pushes herself to her feet, and strides forward with determination.
Recoleta: "Cross the silent desert, follow the Gnostic River to its source. A forgotten river runs, its course to all untold ..."
Recoleta: "At the source of the Gnostic River, in shrouded darkness laid, within that mirror, the cave dweller hides, his ancient face displayed."
Recoleta: So I just need to follow this river, right?
Recoleta: Phew, what a long night. Looks like I've finally found the source of the Gnostic River.
Recoleta: And now? There's no other path forward.
Recoleta: Wait. Could it be ...?
"Within that mirror ..." Recoleta gazes at the black surface of the water.
She pinches her nose shut and leaps in.
Recoleta feels herself sliding downward through a cave, yet there is no sense of wetness or flowing water.
Recoleta: Whoa ... Waaaah! ... Haha, waaah!
Recoleta: Wee! Hahaha! This is actually kind of fun!
She lands in a misty, damp cavern.
Recoleta: "Tread lightly, do not disturb those shadowed tribal dwellers. Their language is as unyielding as stone, their gazes deep as caverns."
Recoleta: The cave dwellers ... Are they those figures wandering around?
Recoleta: Can they really see me? Their eyes look completely vacant. Maybe I don't need to hide at all.
Cave Dweller I: Grant me immortality!
Cave Dweller II: Grant me glory!
Recoleta: Aah! Stay away from me!
Recoleta takes off running, ignoring everything as she sprints forward.
After passing through countless identical caves, Recoleta finally stops to listen. No footsteps, only the sound of an inexplicable underground wind.
Recoleta: Phew, finally lost them. That wasn't so bad.
Recoleta: Let's see, the next line says ..."The ninth and tenth time darkness falls, Las Ruinas Gloriosas shall appear—to mark the journey's end, in ruined glory and radiance, clear."
Recoleta: So, am I supposed to sleep down here for over a week to unlock the next puzzle?
Recoleta: Wait. I see! This is a puzzle too!
Recoleta: This place is still lit! So, to make "darkness fall," I need to extinguish all these braziers.
The flames instantly go out, as if responding directly to Recoleta's thoughts.
Recoleta: Alright, one more. On to the next cave.
Recoleta: Hmm, if my count is right, this should be the tenth cave.
There is no path ahead, only a thick, gray mist.
Recoleta: "To mark the journey's end"—so that mist must be it? I see. I need to complete the "ninth and tenth time" to reach the tenth night.
Recoleta: But, "ninth and tenth" ... What does that even mean? What if I extinguish the last fire in this tenth cave?
Recoleta sits cross-legged, staring at the final brazier.
After a long pause, she suddenly laughs, then picks up the brazier with both hands.
Recoleta: It must be this brazier! It marks the boundary between the ninth cave and the tenth.
Recoleta: Wow. These metaphors and symbols really are hard to understand. I think I finally get why people struggle with my novels.
With all her strength, she hurls the flames into the mist.
Recoleta: Go! Bring forth the light!
The mist scatters. Ahead, four enormous phantoms loom.
Behind them, she barely makes out a shackled figure in the darkness.
Recoleta: Ms. Hunting?! Are you alright?
Hunting seems to be speaking, but an unseen barrier muffles her voice.
"Numb": I tried to stop you, but you still came.
"Enlighten": Child, why must you seek the secret of the "Ageless"?
"Cheering": Executioner, your cruelty has broken my heart!
"Slighted": How amusing. I never thought you'd make it here.
Countless voices echo in the ruins, mocking her powerlessness.
And four voices rise in unison, forming a harmony.
Recoleta: Step aside. I must rescue my comrade!
Recoleta faces the phantom symbols like a knight, her pen wielded like a sword.
Recoleta: Clearly, this battle isn't about strength. You are not the Minotaur guarding the labyrinth. You are mere obstacles, symbols created to hinder me.
Recoleta: Las Ruinas Gloriosas—the answer's in the name, right?
Symbolic Chorus: Clever little writer, what blocks your path is nothing but imaginary chains.
Symbolic Chorus: With the mere flick of your pen, you may sever them. It is unbelievably simple!
Recoleta lunges forward with her sword. In the darkness, the sounds of chains snapping ring out. But before long, more chains, newborn and endless, emerge from the abyss.
Recoleta: What ... What's going on?!
Recoleta slashes over and over again through the chains, but her efforts are in vain. Exhausted, she collapses to the ground.
A flickering shadow catches the corner of her eye. It's Hunting, off in the distance. What is she doing?
Hunting has abandoned words. She raises both hands above her head, outlining a rectangle.
Recoleta: A rectangle. What's that supposed to mean?
Hunting makes a motion as if embracing something, tracing the shape of the rectangle repeatedly in the air.
Recoleta: A ... pillar? Wait ... the pillar from before!
Recoleta: It's the pillar del Templo de la Metáfora!
Recoleta: ... The MacGuffin?!
Editor Hunting: "In crook stories, it is almost always the necklace ..."
Those quoted words strike Recoleta like lightning in a spring storm.
Recoleta: Yes, a necklace—a chain! Just like the Templo de la Metáfora. These chains are meaningless! I need to move past them and face the core of Ruinas Gloriosas head-on.
Countless chains bind and drag Recoleta to the ground under their weight. She covers her ears, struggling as she steps into the four symbols.
Recoleta: East, West, South, North!
Recoleta swings her sword in all four directions. With each strike, she bears the weight of a thousand chains.
The twisted laughter fades. Exhaustion and relief wash over her, and she collapses to the ground.
Her eyelids feel unbearably heavy. Hunting's voice grows distant.
The cowboy gazes out the window at the prairie, the fresh green of spring filling her with an almost dreamlike sense of renewal.
Cowboy: My head hurts a little. Maybe I slept too long.
Cowboy: Those adventures seem hazy now.
Coachman: It's alright. You've already written our adventures into a novel.
Coachman: We escaped the Templo de la Metáfora, wandered for ages in the Symbolic Forest, and in the end, you saved me in the Ruinas Gloriosas.
The cowboy feels as if she's in a dream, but she knows the coachman is right. Those images slowly resurface in her mind.
Cowboy: Alright. And my novel? Is it finished?
Coachman: Have you forgotten? We wrote an eternal masterpiece and even won a significant literary award!
Cowboy: Where are we going?
Coachman: We're heading home.
Coachman: Back to Buenos Aires, back to the H.A. Publishing House for a grand award ceremony.
Coachman: And then, our story will come to an end.
The cowboy chuckles softly.
She waves at the tall figure before her.
As the carriage jostles forward, she throws open the door and leaps into the golden light of the sun.
Cowboy: Goodbye, Ms. Hunting!
Cowboy: Publishing novels, receiving awards ... None of that matters to me anymore.
Cowboy: There's a whole beautiful world before me! Shouldn't I live like a poet and go out and experience its wonders under the glorious radiance of Apollo? Shouldn't I run free, feeling the grass and earth between my toes?
Cowboy: After all, the story is far from over.
Behind her, the coachman—Hunting—watches, relief and longing coloring her face.
She waves at the soaring figure of freedom.
Editor Hunting: You're as careless as ever, Recoleta! You forgot that, in the story, you're supposed to call me Coachman!
Editor Hunting: But none of that matters now. Go, Recoleta!
Editor Hunting: Like an invincible warrior, like a falcon soaring free, like a fearless Gaucho Knight! Go forth and conquer the boundless Pampas Plain!
Editor Hunting: Good luck, rebellious, nameless writer who scorns fame and disregards all else!
Recoleta: Blessed me, blessed me, my beating heart does drum—the fervent words of visceral realism, within my chest they thump.
Recoleta: Come on home, spirits of the past!
The seasons cycle once more.
And a new winter arrives.
Hunting sits at her desk, warming her hands with a cup of coffee as she flips through a manuscript.
Editor Hunting: You need to dissect the salesman's psychology more deeply. Everything else is fine. If we're lucky, it might be published before spring.
Writer Thomas: Hmm? In the past, you'd have said, "No one cares about a retired salesman's story."
Editor Hunting: True. But things have changed. Just like Gregor Samsa in The Metamorphosis. You just need to write as well as Kafka, Tommy.
Writer Thomas: May I ask—what made you leave such a high-paying job to start your own publishing house?
Editor Hunting: That's a secret, a secret ... which has a little something to do with you.
Writer Thomas: Oh? You mean my novel moved you that much?!
A knock at the door interrupts the writer.
Publishing House Employee: I'm sorry to intrude, Director. We received a package—an anonymous novel addressed to you.
Editor Hunting: Let me take a look.
The employee unwraps the package and gently places a thin booklet on the desk.
Writer Thomas: Ah, Ruinas Gloriosas y Directrices de Metáforas by Recoleta—
Writer Thomas: That's ...?

This book is dedicated to Maria Hunting.

An editor, a teacher, a friend.

And a brave and honest person.

Writer Thomas: Ms. Hunting, are you alright?
Editor Hunting: ... Phew.
Editor Hunting: She put the dedication in the preface. Looks like she still remembers my advice.

Dedicated to the writers of history, those remarkable, distant stars.
Dedicated to the editors of history, the unsung geniuses who captured brilliance.
Dedicated to you who are watching now, the wonderful players, viewers, and readers.