EPISODE 7

Chanel: “You seem awfully certain. What if this exchange really was caused by the Goddess of Time?”

A crease formed on Chanel’s forehead, deepening as she watched Benzo open a storage box that had slid out toward him after he entered a specific code into the wall beneath a metal panel.

Benzo: “So far, that’s the only explanation that seems even remotely plausible. And while we’re on the subject—how much do you actually believe in Her existence?”

He asked the question as he pulled from the box a bolt-loosening machine roughly the size of two adult fists, complete with a sturdy handle.

Chanel: “I’m not obligated to answer that. What is that machine?”
She shifted her stance, bracing herself for an attack.

Benzo: “Heh. Playing it safe, are we?”

He fell silent for a moment, one hand gripping the device—then, without warning, he spun around and aimed it directly at Chanel. Thinking it was a firearm, Chanel reacted instinctively, throwing herself into a roll to dodge. But instead of gunfire, the only sound that echoed was the whirring spin of the tool’s tip.

Benzo: “Hahaha. That might be the funniest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”
His expression, however, remained completely blank.

Chanel’s gaze sharpened at Benzo, stung by how easily he had toyed with her. Without offering any explanation about the device, Benzo turned back to the metal panel and began loosening the bolts that secured it to the wall.

Benzo: “If the Goddess of Time truly exists, shouldn’t She show Herself to Her followers? Isn’t that what deities usually do to build faith? You see, and therefore you believe.”

Chanel fell silent for a moment, as if carefully considering the question before answering.

Chanel: “Well, if you think about it that way, you’re not entirely wrong. But what does that have to do with that metal panel? Are you planning to throw it away?”
Her tone was serious.

Benzo: “No. I’m bringing it to your so-called habitat.”

Chanel: “Huh? What for?! What are you planning to do?”

Benzo: “It’s my bed.”

Chanel froze, staring at him as if he had just told a joke with a completely straight face.

Chanel: “Are you messing with me again? Isn’t that a dining table?”
Her voice was flat.

Benzo: “No. It’s a bed.”

Chanel fell silent once more, her eyes shifting to the metal slab—nearly as tall as her own body, or rather, as tall as Benzo.

Chanel: “Are your muscles made of machinery too? How can you sleep on something that hard?”
Benzo: “Does a bed have to be soft? Besides, the one you have there is ancient. The wood’s falling apart, and the sheets smell like cow dung. I can’t sleep on that.”
Chanel: “Are you sure you're not in the wrong room?”
She stared at him, baffled.

Then Chanel refocused on the metal panel.

Chanel: “You’re not planning to just carry that huge thing out of here, right? Wouldn’t that look suspicious?”

With his usual blank expression, Benzo pointed out a set of buttons on the side of the automated metal panel. When he pressed one of them, the rectangular slab folded in on itself, shrinking until it resembled the size of a suitcase. He grabbed one end and lifted it with ease.

Chanel: “Hoo…”
Her eyes widened in amazement.

Benzo: “Heh. Impressed, aren’t you? Ever seen a chair that spins when you press a button?”

Chanel immediately remembered how impressed she had been with the chair in the meeting room.

Chanel: “Tch, that’s nothing. Chairs are better when you can spin them just by pushing with your feet.”
Benzo: “Ah, yes. Those old prototypes. I still see plenty of them in your nearly collapsing town.”

Chanel rolled her eyes in irritation while Benzo returned the bolt machine to its storage box and closed the access panel in the wall.

Benzo: “And I’m guessing that to loosen bolts, you people still use those little silver tools shaped like keys, don’t you?”

Chanel didn’t answer—because he was right.

Benzo: “Heh. No wonder your bed collapsed the moment I lay on it.”
Chanel: “What?! Whose bed?!”
Benzo: “I told you—the wood was ancient.”
He sighed, face completely expressionless.
Benzo: “I knew it. You Commadors really don’t have the best hearing.”

At that moment, a cylinder at the end of a metal table opened automatically. Both Benzo and Chanel turned toward the bowl that rose from within it. Soon after, a woman’s voice echoed through the room—not belonging to any Betagir, but to the computerized system that assisted Chanel in her daily routines.

Daysy: “Good morning, Your Majesty. Your breakfast has arrived. Please call on me again once you’ve finished your meal. For your drink and dessert, would you like the same selection as last week, or is there something specific you prefer?”

Chanel: “What now?”

Benzo walked over to the metal table and paused for a moment as he inspected the bowl’s contents.

Benzo: “Which one are you asking about? The automated voice? Or this bowl?”
Chanel: “Both.”
Benzo: “Oh.”

He replied casually. Chanel waited several long minutes for him to elaborate, but he remained silent, offering not a single explanation.

Chanel: “Hey!”
She half-yelled.

Benzo: “Haha. It’s surprisingly entertaining to fool myself.”
His face, as always, showed no expression.

Chanel: “Ugh, if we hadn’t switched bodies, I would’ve killed you a long time ago.”
Benzo: “Hmph. A Commador killing me? That would never happen.”
He swiftly grabbed something as he spoke.

With the folded metal panel in one hand, Benzo walked toward a section of the metal wall situated between two large bookcases. He pressed something, revealing an access point. After entering a long code—an intricate sequence of numbers and symbols that only Chanel was supposed to know—a hidden door slid open, and Benzo stepped inside. Chanel— or rather, the real Benzo trapped in Chanel’s body—was left speechless at the sight.

Benzo: “That voice earlier is an automated system programmed to assist with daily activities. You don’t need to know the details. And I suppose I should mention this sooner—there’s a good chance I can come and go through this door whenever I please. Naturally, to discuss this whole body-switch problem. I’m telling you this because I don’t want an idiot like you causing a commotion every time I show up. Understood?”

Chanel: “Oh, is that so? Then, when exactly are you planning to change my hair color back, huh?!”

Benzo: “For now, I don’t intend to change it. This makes it easier for me to come and go.”

Chanel: “I think you misunderstood. That wasn’t a question—that was an order!”

Benzo: “Then why did your tone rise at the end—and why did you add that ‘huh ’?”

It took nearly all of Benzo’s patience—while trapped in Chanel’s body—not to attack himself on the spot. Chanel let out a loud sigh and forced a bitter smile.

Benzo: “Heh. So my face can look that ridiculous.”

His hand moved toward the button to descend, but paused.

Benzo: “Oh, right. That bowl. That’s your breakfast.”

He added this before finally descending through the hidden passage, leaving Chanel behind. Still fuming, Chanel kicked the table beside her—only to end up clutching her toes in pain.

Chanel: “Argh, damn it!”
She hissed, holding her foot.

Not long after, a loud rumble echoed from Chanel’s stomach. Remembering what Benzo had said about the bowl on the table, she glanced toward it. Inside were five pills. Across most of Betagir, consuming pulverized and granulated nutrients in pill form, or as various types of liquid supplements, had become a trend for the sake of efficiency. Chanel—currently Benzo—grumbled at the sight.

Chanel: “… How fucking hell is anyone supposed to feel full from a handful of tiny pellets?”

Meanwhile, in a dim underground tunnel, Benzo continued walking toward the far end, the passageway meticulously built and leading somewhere unknown. As he walked, he reached into the pocket of the white coat he wore and retrieved the object he had hastily grabbed earlier—a cylindrical pill, colored blue and black. Expressionless as ever, he examined it briefly before slipping it back into his pocket. Then he began humming a familiar rock tune.

Benzo: “Hmm… if I’m counting right… I’ve been in this body for three days now…”

Benzo—or rather, Chanel trapped in Benzo’s form—kept humming as she recalled the day she first awoke after the incident in Centraxis.

Westgaard—land of the Commador—was home to a remarkably diverse population. Young and old, all lived side by side, and the region was known for having the highest birth rate among the four races. It was also the only place where a leader was chosen through a public election, voted in by members of its three major political parties to represent the entire Commador people.

According to unwritten history—or more accurately, rumors passed from one person to another—Benzo Jacques Grenulos was a nobody. He came from neither the Dove Party, known for its liberal ideals, nor the Lotus Party, proud champions of nationalism, nor the Shark Party, infamous for its conservative doctrines. Benzo was the first Commador leader ever elected without belonging to any party… or at least, that was what everyone believed.

On a night in the southern district of Westgaard’s capital, Ironstone, stood a grand six-story building. This structure served as the center of governance, where Commador politicians frequently held meetings, banquets, and various formal gatherings. Inside, each floor offered private chambers for high-ranking party officials—conference rooms, bedrooms, and bathrooms alike.

On the sixth floor, the highest level, in a room decorated with a warm wooden theme, lay the Commador leader, Benzo, still unconscious on a wooden bed covered in off-white sheets. It was the day after the battle in Centraxis. Beside him, Izzy sat in a wooden chair, elbows resting against the edge of the bed, watching over him with eyes filled with worry and sorrow.

Izzy: “...Chief, are you truly all right? Everyone panicked when they heard you had suddenly collapsed last night. What exactly happened? Every healer and shaman from the Lotus Party was summoned one by one to examine you, but none of them found anything unusual. They all said your condition was no different from someone simply in a deep sleep…”

Slowly, Izzy reached for Benzo’s arm and held it, her eyes welling with tears.

Izzy: “And now… barely a few hours since the day after it happened, they’re already busy discussing who will replace you…”

Her fingers intertwined with his, and she let out a quiet sob.

Izzy: “Chief… no, Jac… You have to wake u— Eh?!”

Izzy jolted as she realized Benzo’s eyes were already open, staring at her with a blank, unreadable expression.

Izzy: “Ja–Jac? I-I mean, Chief?! You’re awake?”

Panic fluttered across her face, but Benzo remained silent.

Benzo: “Tell me this is just a dream. Who did you just call me?”
Izzy: “I-I of course addressed you as Chief—”
Benzo: “I’m not deaf. I heard you call a name.”

Izzy’s eyes widened slightly before she let out a slow, weary breath.

Izzy: “Yes… I called you by your old nickname. I’m sorry. I promised myself I wouldn’t—”
Benzo: “Damn it, this is real. I actually turned green.”
Izzy: “Eh?”

Izzy followed Benzo’s gaze to the tall mirror in the corner of the room, where his reflection—green hair and all—still lay on the bed. Though his face revealed nothing, irritation churned beneath his calm exterior. With a swift movement, he pushed himself upright, sitting on the edge of the bed as he surveyed the surroundings.

Benzo: “What kind of ancient place is this?”
Izzy: “Eh? W–well, of course it’s your private chamber.”
Benzo: “Huh?”
He sounded shocked, though his expression didn’t change.
Benzo: “I know the Commadors are poor, but I never imagined that man actually lived in a shack like this.”
He muttered the words under his breath.

Izzy’s brows knitted together, puzzled by these strange, unfamiliar remarks from him.

Izzy: “W–what? A shack? Chief, you’re the one who said this place was already far better than anywhere you’d lived before! Besides, this is the private chamber of the grandest six-story building in all of Westgaard!”

Benzo: “This is the grandest thing the Commadors have? Wait—”

He lifted his left hand toward Izzy, then turned his head to the side, half facing away from her. A faint chuckle slipped out before he looked back at her, expression as blank as ever. Seeing him stifling laughter left Izzy both confused and irritated; it felt as though her leader was mocking the building that so many citizens had worked hard to construct. She opened her mouth to ask again, but Benzo’s suppressed laughter abruptly shifted to a gagging sound.

Benzo: “Hoeek!”
His face remained completely impassive as he made the sound.

Izzy: “A–Are you all right, Chief?”

Benzo: [pinching his nose shut] “What is that awful stench?”

Izzy: “Eh? Stench? I–I don’t smell anything—”

Benzo’s green eyes shifted toward the source of the stench—the bedsheet beneath him. If one looked closely, there was a dust-like brown stain scattered around the fabric where he had been lying. Following his gaze, Izzy misunderstood, assuming Benzo was staring at their still-linked hands. Her fingers were loosely intertwined with his. Realizing it, her face flushed red, and she yanked her hand away in a panic.

Izzy: “O-oh, I—I didn’t mean to! W-when you were still—”

Before she could finish, Benzo dipped his head closer to the sheet and inhaled the foul odor directly.

Benzo: “Urghh—hoeek—hoeeek!!”

He immediately clamped a hand over his mouth and nose. His voice sounded like someone on the verge of vomiting, yet his expression remained eerily blank. He pushed himself halfway off the bed, only to collapse forward, catching himself on both palms and knees on the wooden floor.

Izzy: “Chief?! Are you all right?” she cried, rushing toward him in panic.

Benzo: “…What kind of damn, vile, wretched, cursed, stupid, idiotic, mangy thing is that? Did a cow just defecate on that bed?” he muttered, slowly turning his face toward the mattress, his expression unchanged.

Izzy: “E-eh? D-defe—what, Chief? And w-what thing are you talking about?”

Benzo: “Ugh. Just check it and smell it yourself.”

Still covering his nose with one hand, Benzo pushed himself upright and walked toward the exit. Just as he reached the doorway, his steps halted—something seemed to have occurred to him.

Benzo: “…Tell me where the bathroom is.”

Izzy: “…Eh?”

Even in her confusion, Izzy answered him. Without another word, Benzo left the bedroom, leaving her alone. Still curious about the “thing” he had mentioned, she hurried back to the bed. Her eyes landed on the faint brown, powder-like residue near the right and left edges of the mattress.

Izzy: “Ah… could it be…?”

Meanwhile, in a bathroom located at the far end of the corridor from his private chamber, Benzo stood before a wide rectangular mirror, staring at his own reflection. The steady sound of running water filled the room as the faucet above the bathtub slowly poured and collected below.

Benzo: “This ugly green hair and these green eyes… No doubt about it. This really is his body.”

His attention shifted to his arms. He gripped each one, testing the firmness of the muscles beneath his hands.

Benzo: “Hmm. I thought he was skinny, but… apparently not.”

His gaze lowered. His hands moved from his arms to his torso, then down to the waistband of his pants. Without hesitation, he tugged them open to examine what was inside.

Benzo: “…Oh. Exactly like the illustrations I’ve seen in biology books.”

He leaned back against the edge of the sink, folding his arms as his thoughts churned.

Benzo (thought): There’s no logical explanation—no reasonable mechanism—that could describe this exchange. The real question is: could this truly be the curse of the Goddess of Time?

Benzo—or rather, Chanel—fell deep into thought for a long while, ten to twenty minutes passing as his eyes drifted unfocused toward the wall ahead of him.

Benzo (thinking):
…But if it’s true, then another question arises. There has never been any record or historical account describing what the Goddess even looks like. No one has ever truly seen her. It’s only an ancient belief passed down through generations. Everyone simply follows the teachings as they are. That voice I heard yesterday—who can prove it was really the Goddess herself?
Unless… unless this is connected to certain individuals who possess abilities that defy reason altogether… then…

Just then, a sudden knocking came from outside. Behind the still-closed bathroom door stood Izzy, face fraught with worry.

Izzy: “Leader? Are you all right?!”
Her voice was high—unnerved, anxious.

Benzo: “Tch. So noisy.”

He exhaled sharply, wearing Chanel’s usual flat expression, and moved to open the door—but Izzy abruptly pushed it open first from the outside.

Izzy: “Chief! Why did you let the faucet run this whole time?”
Benzo: “Eh? The faucet?”
Izzy: “The water’s already seeping out—it’s flooding the floor, Chief!”

She pointed at the wooden boards just outside the bathroom, now glistening with spreading puddles.

After glancing at the damp wooden floor outside, Benzo lowered his gaze. Water had overflowed from the bathtub, flooding the bathroom up to his ankles—and indeed, it had already seeped out into the hallway. Izzy, still in a panic, half-ran to the bathtub and quickly shut off the running tap.

Benzo muttered to himself,
“Ah… the tap doesn’t stop automatically here.”

Izzy looked back at him, her brows still tightly furrowed.

Izzy: “Chief, are you sure you’re alright? Did… after sleeping for an entire day, did something make you… feel strange?”

She was about to continue, but her words stalled midway. Chanel—inside Benzo—paid no attention to her hesitation. Instead, he diverted the unfinished question with one of his own.

Benzo: “More importantly, was something so urgent that you barged in before I even permitted you to enter the bathroom? Aren’t you his subordinate— I mean, my underling? Or did you rush in on purpose because you wanted to see me naked?”

Izzy: “EH?! A-are you insane?! Why would I— I mean, when have I ever thought of something like that, Chief?!”

Izzy’s face flushed a deep red, panic flaring across her features at Benzo’s sudden question. Her voice came out far louder than she intended, so loud that Benzo instinctively lifted a hand to cover one ear—expression still blank.

Benzo: “… Then?”

Izzy: “I—I’m sorry for barging in. I-It’s just that I saw water leaking out from inside, so I was worried something had happened to you. Also, I just heard some kind of commotion coming from the lower floor. It sounds like there’s an uproar in the meeting hall. I think you need to go there.”

On the first floor, inside the government building’s council chamber, chaos thrummed through the air. Countless people were already arguing at once. All members of the representative council—generals, party leaders, healers, even random commoners who had no business being there—had crowded into the room.

Several people jabbed accusing fingers at others across the massive round table at the center. It was a familiar sight for the people of Commador.

Sozen: “We cannot allow this to continue! If Chief Grenulos is still not awake, someone must take his place for now. Otherwise, what of the unresolved matters piling up? Will you take responsibility if the people riot again, like during the last war incident?”

Sodak Zeno—more commonly known as Sozen—the head of the Shark Party, a man in his early thirties, stepped forward as he raised his voice at the man standing across from him. His long, dark-brown hair fell to his shoulders, the strands on either side neatly tied back, swaying with each sharp gesture he made.

Lander: “I understand your concern, Mr. Zeno, but replacing a leader isn’t as simple as flipping a hand! We must abide by the very foundation that placed Chairman Grenulos in his position—the people’s election. Isn’t it you yourself who insists on adhering strictly to that law in your own political doctrine?”

Lander Mortague—the highest general in all of Commador’s military—stood tall, the old scar across his neck visible even from afar. Known as a strict, dignified commander and a devoted father, he met Sozen’s glare without flinching.

Sozen: “Hah! Are you mocking my doctrine now? This has nothing to do with the political principles of any individual! This is about the welfare of the people! And without a leader, that welfare will crumble!”

The entire conference room erupted in clamor at Sozen’s words, voices overlapping, tempers flaring. Arguments broke out from every side,

Before the chaos could spiral further, one of the elders slammed his fist repeatedly on the table, the heavy thuds echoing through the chamber, demanding silence.

Theo: “Mr. Zeno, with all due respect—regardless of whether Commador currently has a leader or not, true prosperity for all our people has always been our goal. Yet as long as we remain at war with the other races, that prosperity has never been fully realized. Therefore, if someone must take the Chief’s seat, that person should be someone respected—someone with significant influence in Commador. And that person is—”

Theodore Henderson, the spokesman of the people, a man with thick coils of black hair, was just about to state his proposal when Lander cut him off.

Lander: “Mr. Henderson, before we start throwing names around, it would be wiser to hear the opinion of each party leader first. Perhaps Mr. Bollote? What are your thoughts regarding the proposal to elect a new leader?”

All eyes immediately turned toward an elderly man with long white hair, sitting with both hands resting near the edge of the table. His presence radiated calm, and his narrow eyes opened only slightly.

Hendrick: “… Hm? And what exactly are we discussing now?”

Everyone in the room immediately broke into murmurs. Some groaned in disbelief, others simply looked resigned as they sighed. Hendrick Sigra Bollote, the leader of the Lotus Party—aside from his medical practice and knowledge of healing—had once been known as one of Commador’s most formidable commanders, a man who fought against the three other races with his bare hands. Now at sixty-eight, his hearing and memory were no longer what they used to be.

Theo: “Would it be possible to explain everything to Mr. Bollote again… separately?”

Sozen: “Tch, we’ll never finish this meeting if we have to start from the beginning again!” He slammed the table in frustration.

The room grew even noisier as people fretted over the thought of having to repeat the long meeting, one that had already dragged on for more than half a day since the Chief of Commador had collapsed.

Lander: sighing, “More importantly, it would be wise to hear another perspective on this matter. Madam Grand, I’ve noticed you’ve been sitting this entire time quietly while we argue. As the head of the Dove Party, do you not have anything to say?”

A woman with long, wavy black hair, the sleeves of her white blouse rolled neatly to her elbows, lifted her gaze and spoke with poised grace.

Elena: “Ah, finally. After nearly seven hours, someone has decided to acknowledge the room…”

Sozen seemed to grumble in disapproval, and a few members of his party—as well as some of the common folk—began muttering among themselves. Yet the woman continued, unfazed.

Elena: “I’m certain everyone here is already exhausted—fed up, even—with this endless, long-winded debate that refuses to reach a conclusion. Returning to the root of the problem, Chief Grenulos suddenly collapsed without any clear reason last night during the Centraxis War. Surely many of you—people of Commador—share in the sorrow of this incident.

“The Shark Party and the Lotus Party have already sent aid in the form of food supplies and mounted troops for the war effort. And the Dove Party has likewise contributed, working hand in hand to provide weapon storage facilities, artillery, and equipment—resources that until now, even as of yesterday, are still being used by Commador’s military.

“A foundational principle can be set aside in dire circumstances. Though we do not know when Chief Grenulos will open his eyes again, a vacuum of power is not something we can afford to take lightly. We are up against races whose magical abilities surpass our own—whose technology is far more advanced than ours. We will not survive destruction if our enemies discover that we are without direction. Isn’t that right?”

The murmur of overlapping conversations rippled through the cramped chamber as the crowd pressed in on all sides. Theo nodded repeatedly while listening to the chatter around him; Sozen was already in fierce discussion with members of his own party; Hendrick looked half-asleep, his attendants hovering anxiously behind him; and finally, Lander, brow deeply furrowed, fixed a questioning stare on Elena.

Lander: “Allow me to confirm what you’ve just said, Madam Grand. Are you implying that you agree to replacing Chief Grenulos?”

Elena offered him a faint, elegant smile.

Elena: “A power vacuum is an urgent matter. In times like these, we cannot afford to show even the slightest weakness. Therefore, we must—”

Izzy: “Replace the chairman with a new candidate, Madam Grand?”

The murmuring died at once.

All eyes snapped toward Izzy, who had apparently just entered from the main doors. Many cast her looks of open displeasure, irritation flickering in their expressions—yet every trace of contempt vanished the moment they saw the figure standing behind her. Framed by the doorway was the very man whose supposed impending replacement they’d been arguing over for hours. Benzo Jacques Grenulos. Awake. Upright. Expressionless.

Benzo: “I was planning to listen to the rest from outside,” he said evenly, his green eyes sweeping across the room full of stunned faces. “But then I thought… it might be fun to walk in now instead.”

Many of them immediately called out his name, smiles breaking across their faces—even those who had been arguing moments before. Though among the sea of relieved expressions, several wore smiles that were thin and brittle, the kind that cracked only because the situation demanded it.