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INFINITE GROWTH SYSTEM: FROM NOTHING TO ABSOLUTE POWER
Chapter 204 - 203: The Handle on the Door · Nov 12, 2026
Chapter List (204)
The old man was already complaining when Auren entered the workshop.
”You’re late.”
Auren glanced toward the narrow window. Morning light had only just begun creeping across the mountain, and the furnace remained dark.
”You told me we would work in the morning.”
”It is morning.”
”Then I’m not late.”
The old man looked at him with the patient irritation of someone who had spent a lifetime discovering that other people could be technically correct and still annoy him.
”Have you eaten?”
”No.”
”Then you’re late for breakfast, too.”
Auren laughed under his breath and followed him to the small table beside the furnace. Two pieces of bread sat on a wooden plate, along with a bowl of porridge and a cup of water. The old man had already eaten most of his portion and was using the remaining bread to wipe his bowl clean.
Auren sat down.
For several minutes, they ate without speaking. Outside, wind moved along the mountain slope, carrying the distant calls of birds through the open entrance. Somewhere below, a stream worked its way around the rocks, indifferent to the paths people had built beside it.
Auren was halfway through his porridge when he noticed the old man watching him.
”What?”
”Nothing.”
”You’ve been looking at me.”
”I was wondering whether you intend to spend the rest of your life eating like a man expecting someone to take his bowl away.”
Auren looked down at his food.
”Is there a correct way to eat porridge?”
”There is a way that doesn’t make every meal look like a personal emergency.”
Auren set his spoon down.
”I used to have more important things to worry about.”
”That sounds exhausting.”
”It was.”
The old man returned his attention to his bread.
”Then perhaps you should stop.”
Auren looked at him, uncertain whether he was joking.
The craftsman did not look up.
After breakfast, he placed a small bundle of tools on the workbench and pointed toward the lower chamber.
”The handle.”
Auren picked up the bundle.
”Do you have a particular design in mind?”
”Yes.”
”What is it?”
”A handle that works.”
Auren sighed.
”I should have expected that answer.”
”You should have learned from the previous answers.”
They descended together.
The door stood where they had left it, fitted into the stone frame. Morning light reached only the upper part of the chamber, leaving the lower corners in shadow. The wooden surface looked almost ordinary now that Auren had seen the small room beyond it.
He approached and examined the repaired edge.
The darker strip had settled overnight. The crack remained visible, but the wood no longer looked as though it might split under the slightest pressure.
The door had held.
Auren ran his fingers along the grain, then stepped aside to let the old man inspect it.
The craftsman tested the frame with both hands before nodding.
”Good enough.”
”That’s becoming your favorite expression.”
”Because you keep giving me reasons to use it.”
He opened the bundle and removed a simple iron handle, a pair of screws, and a narrow drill. The handle was plain, shaped to fit comfortably in the hand, with no decoration beyond the slight curve of its metal.
Auren turned it over.
”Why iron?”
”Because wood wears.”
”Couldn’t you make a wooden one?”
”I could.”
”Would it work?”
”For a while.”
The old man held out his hand.
”Give it here.”
Auren passed him the handle.
The craftsman placed it against the door and marked the points where the screws would go. He worked carefully, checking the alignment twice before drilling the holes.
”Hold this,” he instructed.
Auren steadied the handle while the old man secured it.
The first screw went in smoothly. The second resisted, forcing the craftsman to withdraw it and adjust the angle.
”Wood has a way of reminding you that you aren’t as clever as you think,” the old man muttered.
Auren watched him work.
”Does everything have that purpose?”
”No. Some things are simply difficult.”
The answer made Auren smile.
Together, they tightened the final screw and stepped back.
The handle was slightly off-center.
Auren noticed it immediately.
The old man noticed him noticing.
”Don’t.”
”I haven’t said anything.”
”Your face has.”
Auren folded his arms.
”Would it hurt to adjust it?”
”Yes.”
”How?”
”Because we’d have to remove it, fill the holes, measure again, drill again, and hope the wood doesn’t split.”
Auren examined the handle.
”It is crooked.”
”By less than the width of your fingernail.”
”That doesn’t make it straight.”
”No. It makes it usable.”
The old man grasped the handle and pulled.
The door opened inward without resistance.
For a moment, neither spoke.
The small room beyond remained exactly as it had been the previous evening. The chair stood beside the window, the narrow bed rested against the far wall, and the cup of water remained on the table.
Nothing had changed.
Yet the door now possessed something it had lacked before.
Someone could open it without asking another person to do the work.
Auren stepped through the doorway.
He stood beside the window and looked out over the mountain slope. From this room, the view extended farther than he had expected. He could see the winding path below, the dark line of the forest, and a pale ribbon of river catching the morning light.
There was no throne, no altar, and no place prepared for someone who had to save the world.
There was only a room.
A place where a person could be alone without being abandoned.
Auren turned toward the old man.
”Who is this for?”
The craftsman leaned against the doorframe.
”I told you yesterday. I don’t know.”
”But someone asked you to build it.”
”Yes.”
”And you agreed.”
”Yes.”
Auren looked around the room again.
”Why?”
The old man considered the question.
”Because I could.”
Auren waited for him to elaborate.
He did not.
After a moment, the craftsman straightened and stepped away from the doorway.
”Come on. There’s work upstairs.”
Auren followed him.
But as they climbed the stairs, he glanced back once more.
The door remained open.
The visitor arrived before noon.
Auren heard the knock while he was sorting small pieces of iron into separate containers. The old man was outside collecting dry branches for the furnace, leaving Auren alone in the workshop.
Three knocks sounded against the wooden entrance.
Auren wiped his hands and opened it.
A young man stood on the threshold, perhaps twenty-five years old, with dark hair falling across his forehead. His clothes were dusty from travel, and a strap crossed his chest where a small leather bag rested against his hip.
He looked tired.
Not injured, not frightened, simply tired in the ordinary way of someone who had walked too far without enough rest.
”Is this the place where a door is being built?” he asked.
Auren studied him.
”That depends on who told you.”
The visitor’s expression tightened slightly.
”A woman I met yesterday.”
”Did she give you a name?”
”No.”
”Did she tell you what the door was for?”
”No.”
Auren almost smiled.
”Then you know as much as I do.”
The young man looked past him into the workshop.
”May I come in?”
Auren stepped aside.
”Of course.”
The visitor entered and examined the room. His eyes moved over the tools, the furnace, and the shelves of unfinished objects. He seemed particularly interested in the wooden door standing against the wall near the entrance.
”That one?” he asked.
”No. That door is unfinished.”
The young man turned toward him.
”How can you tell?”
Auren glanced at the repaired edge.
”Because I helped finish it.”
The visitor looked at the door again, then nodded slowly.
”Does it open?”
”Yes.”
”Then perhaps it isn’t unfinished.”
Auren considered this.
Before he could answer, the old man returned carrying a bundle of branches.
He stopped when he saw the visitor.
”You.”
The young man turned.
”Hello.”
The old man dropped the branches beside the furnace.
”I told you not to come here.”
”I know.”
”Then why are you here?”
The visitor looked toward the lower staircase.
”Because I heard the door had opened.”
The craftsman’s face hardened.
”It wasn’t built for you.”
”I didn’t say it was.”
”Then what do you want?”
The young man hesitated.
For the first time, Auren noticed his fingers tightening around the strap of his bag. The movement was small, almost involuntary.
”I want to see it.”
The old man shook his head.
”You saw it once.”
”That was before.”
”Before what?”
The visitor looked at Auren.
”Before I knew someone might answer.”
Silence settled over the workshop.
Auren glanced between them.
”Do you know each other?”
The old man gave a humorless laugh.
”Unfortunately.”
The young man lowered his gaze.
”I came here because I need to know whether the room is still there.”
Auren studied him.
”Why wouldn’t it be?”
”Because I left.”
The words were quiet, but they carried something the young man seemed reluctant to explain.
Auren thought of the room beneath the mountain, the covered object, and the voice that had asked whether someone was there.
He did not ask the visitor whether he was the person the room had been built for.
He did not need to.
Instead, he asked a different question.
”Would you like to see it?”
The young man looked at him.
”Yes.”
Auren turned toward the staircase.
”Then come with me.”
The old man remained beside the furnace.
”Auren.”
He stopped.
The craftsman looked at him with an expression he could not immediately read.
”Remember what the door is for.”
Auren glanced toward the visitor.
”To let someone choose.”
”Good.”
The old man picked up the fallen branches.
”Then don’t choose for him.”
The young man followed Auren into the lower chamber.
He walked slowly, keeping one hand on the stone wall as they descended. When they reached the bottom, he stopped.
The door stood open.
He stared at it for a long time.
Finally, the young man approached the threshold.
The room beyond was small and quiet, with sunlight falling across the floor. Dust had gathered along the window ledge, and the chair remained where it had been placed.
The young man entered.
He did not touch the table or sit on the bed. He simply stood near the window and looked outside.
Auren noticed that his shoulders had begun to tremble.
”Are you all right?” he asked.
The visitor shook his head, then seemed to reconsider.
”I don’t know.”
Auren recognized the answer.
It was not a refusal to speak. It was the only honest response the young man could offer.
He waited.
After a while, the visitor turned toward him.
”I lived in a room like this once.”
Auren said nothing.
”It wasn’t this room. The window faced a courtyard, and the walls were painted blue. There was a table near the door, and my mother kept a bowl of fruit on it even when we couldn’t afford to replace what we ate.”
He gave a small, embarrassed laugh.
”She said an empty table made a house look abandoned.”
Auren looked at the bare table beside the window.
”What happened?”
The young man rubbed his palms together.
”My mother died. My father left before that. After she was gone, I couldn’t stay in the room. Everything reminded me of her.”
He paused.
”So I left.”
Auren waited for him to continue.
”I thought leaving would make it easier. I told myself that if I walked far enough, I would stop remembering the sound of her voice. I would stop thinking about the things I should have done differently.”
His gaze moved toward the window.
”It didn’t work.”
Auren thought of the roads he had walked, the worlds he had left behind, and the memories he had once tried to control.
”No,” he said quietly. ”It doesn’t always work that way.”
The young man nodded.
”Someone told me about this place. They said there was a door here that opened when someone wanted it to.”
”That’s what happened.”
”Then I thought...” He stopped, swallowed, and tried again. ”I thought perhaps I could come here and find out whether I still wanted to go back.”
Auren looked at the doorway.
”You don’t have to decide that today.”
The young man stared at him.
”How do you know?”
”I don’t.”
A faint smile appeared on the visitor’s face.
”You’re not very reassuring.”
”I’ve been told.”
For the first time, the young man laughed.
The sound was brief, but it seemed to loosen something inside him. He walked to the table and sat in the chair, placing both hands on its worn surface.
”I used to think that if I left a place, I had to stop wanting it. Otherwise, leaving meant nothing.”
Auren leaned against the wall.
”And now?”
”Now I think I might have been wrong.”
The young man looked toward the open door.
”I can miss my mother without pretending I can bring her back. I can want to see my old home without deciding that everything will be the same when I arrive.”
He rubbed his eyes.
”I don’t know why that feels so difficult.”
”Because wanting something can make you afraid of what you might do to get it.”
The visitor looked at him.
Auren continued carefully.
”Sometimes we want something so badly that we start treating the world as though it owes us a way to obtain it. We stop asking whether the thing we want is still possible, or whether getting it would cost more than we understand.”
The young man lowered his head.
”I wanted her to be alive.”
”I know.”
”I wanted to go back and change everything.”
”I know.”
”And I hated myself because I couldn’t.”
Auren pushed away from the wall.
”You don’t have to turn grief into a punishment.”
The words remained between them.
The young man looked at the empty table.
For several minutes, he did not speak.
Then he stood.
”I think I want to leave.”
Auren nodded.
”All right.”
The visitor looked surprised.
”You’re not going to ask where?”
”No.”
”Or tell me I should stay?”
”No.”
”Why?”
Auren glanced at the door.
”Because you came here to find out what you wanted. I don’t think it would help if I made the decision for you.”
The young man considered him.
Then he walked toward the doorway.
At the threshold, he stopped and looked back into the room.
”I might come back.”
”You might.”
”Would the door still be here?”
Auren looked at the wooden frame, the imperfect handle, and the repaired edge that remained visible beneath the light.
”I think so.”
The visitor nodded.
Then he stepped through the doorway and continued up the stairs.
Auren followed him to the workshop entrance.
Outside, the young man paused beneath the morning sky. He took a long breath, adjusted the strap of his bag, and began walking down the mountain path.
He did not look back.
Auren watched until the trees concealed him.
The old man returned to the workshop shortly afterward.
He found Auren standing beside the entrance, looking down the slope.
”Did he see the room?”
”Yes.”
”Did he open the door?”
”It was already open.”
The craftsman grunted.
”That’s not what I asked.”
Auren turned toward him.
”He went inside. He remembered someone he had lost. Then he decided to leave.”
The old man studied his face.
”And you let him.”
”Yes.”
”Did you tell him what to do?”
”No.”
”Did you promise that the room would wait for him?”
”No.”
The old man nodded.
”Good.”
Auren looked at him.
”You knew he would come.”
”I suspected he might.”
”Who is he?”
The craftsman lifted the bundle of branches he had carried outside.
”A person who left.”
”That’s all?”
”What else do you need?”
Auren considered the question.
He had spent too long believing that understanding someone meant knowing their history, their fears, and every choice that had brought them to the present. Yet the young man had entered the room carrying a grief that Auren could recognize without possessing.
He had left with the same grief.
But he had also left with a choice that belonged to him.
”Nothing,” Auren said.
The old man looked satisfied.
”Then come and help me with the furnace.”
Auren followed him inside.
That evening, the old man gave Auren a small iron ring.
It was plain and slightly uneven, with a narrow opening that had not been closed completely.
”What is this for?” Auren asked.
”Practice.”
”Practice for what?”
”Making something without trying to make it perfect.”
Auren turned the ring between his fingers.
”I thought we were building doors.”
”We are.”
”Then why make a ring?”
The old man placed another piece of iron on the anvil.
”Because a door is made from many things. Some of them are too small for people to notice. That doesn’t make them unimportant.”
Auren examined the ring again.
Its surface bore the marks of repeated hammer strikes. One side was smoother than the other, and the opening was slightly wider at the top.
It was not particularly useful.
It was not beautiful.
But someone had made it.
”Did you make this?” Auren asked.
”Yesterday.”
”Why?”
The old man raised his hammer.
”Because I could.”
Auren smiled and placed the ring in his pocket.
Then he took his place beside the anvil.
They worked until the light faded from the window. The old man taught him how to bend the metal without weakening it, how to recognize when it had become too cold to shape, and how to stop before force damaged the work.
Auren listened.
He made mistakes.
He tried again.
And when the ring finally held its shape, the old man inspected it and nodded.
”Good enough.”
Auren laughed.
”One day, you’ll tell me something is excellent.”
”Perhaps.”
”When?”
”When you make something excellent.”
Auren shook his head and set the ring on the workbench.
Outside, the mountain darkened beneath the evening sky.
Somewhere below, the young man continued walking toward a destination he had not yet chosen. In the lower chamber, the small heartbeat continued its quiet rhythm. The door remained open, and the room waited without demanding that anyone enter.
Auren looked toward the staircase.
For the first time, he understood that the door was not merely a way to leave.
It was also a way to return.
And neither choice needed to be made before the person standing before it was ready.
He picked up the hammer again.
There was still work to do.
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