Lost in remote lands, a village seemed frozen in time.
Somewhere in the hollow of a thick, misty valley where even the sun struggled to penetrate, a modest cluster of dilapidated buildings concealed an old chaplain.
Standing there, austere, half-erased by the years, he seemed to blend into the silent whisper of the woods and stone.
Inside, an entity remained motionless, wrapped in a soft light filtering through cracked stained glass. It gently caressed an old wooden cross, its fingers sliding with an almost unreal tenderness over the worn icon. Its smile, gentle and disarming, turned toward the old man who had just entered, staggering under the weight of his age.
His robe scraped and trailed over the damp stone floor. The old priest stopped in front of him, out of breath.
He looked at the stranger with suspicion, but also curiosity.
"Who are you, stranger?" asked the priest, his voice cracked by time. "No one comes here, to this forgotten place..."
The entity lifted its eyes toward him, its pupils glowing with an almost maternal warmth. "Oh, I'm just a traveler, a pilgrim seeking souls to soothe. You know, souls suffer so much these days. Too much pain, too much burden."
The priest frowned, but the entity's voice had something reassuring, a sweet melody that slid over the nerves, dissolving doubts like morning mist.
"We all suffer," replied the old man. "But suffering is the path to atonement, to forgiveness."
The entity let out a small laugh, light, almost imperceptible, but charged with something unsettling. "Ah, atonement... Are you sure? You know, I believe suffering doesn't have to be a path, Father. It can be a choice, but it's not the only one."
It stepped forward softly, each step strangely silent despite the creaking floor. Its hands clasped behind its back as it leaned slightly toward the old man.
"What if I told you there's another way? A way where you don't have to carry all this burden?"
The priest straightened up, as if pricked by an invisible needle. "Another way? And what heresy do you propose?"
The entity didn't answer right away. It let a long silence stretch out, so long that the sound of the wind outside seemed deafening. Then it whispered softly:
"Kindness. True kindness, one that asks for nothing in return. One that frees you, Father, from all this weight. Why punish yourself over and over when it would be so simple to lay it all down at your feet?"
The old priest took a step back, troubled, but something in the entity's gaze seemed to envelop him like an invisible net. He wanted to protest, to shout false promises, but the words died in his throat.
The entity placed a soft but icy hand on the old man's shoulder. "You have spent your whole life protecting this place, praying, weeping. You deserve better. You deserve rest, surrender, total peace."
The old man shook his head, dizziness taking hold of him. But the words that followed, each pleasant and reassuring sentence, dug a rift inside him that he could not fill.
"No one will come here to thank you, Father. No one will recognize your sacrifice. But I see all of it. I understand you. And I can offer you what you desire deep in your soul, even if you dare not say it aloud."
The priest tried a last surge of will, one final silent prayer. But it was too late. The entity's kindness had slipped inside him like a sweet poison.
He had spoken with certainty, believing he was defending the faith, but perhaps he had never truly understood what he served.
"It is profound ignorance that inspires the dogmatic tone."
These forgotten words, once heard from the mouth of a skeptical monk, echoed for a brief moment in his clouded mind ... then faded away.
The old chaplain echoed a final murmur. That of absurd kindness, gentle yet incisive.
...
The old chaplain stood motionless in the gloom, a faint smile lingering on his trembling lips. Since his encounter with the stranger, a chilling serenity had seized him. His words no longer trembled; they now resonated with a disturbing clarity in the oppressive silence of the dilapidated church.
Outside, in the mist-shrouded valley, a young boy ran barefoot over the damp gravel. He was thin, dirty, and wore a modest rag as his only garment against the cold.
Though he looked like any other poor street urchin, his gaze seemed to hold concepts he should never have understood or explored at his young age.
The entity had been watching him. Since its arrival in the village, its invisible steps had circled around the boy.
Not a coincidence, of course. Nothing ever was.
The priest approached the entity, now seated on a wooden bench eaten away by time, fingers caressing an unremarkable rosary.
"This child... does he seem different to you?" asked the old man, a strange light in his eyes.
The entity smiled discreetly, like a hunter who already knew the prey would walk into its trap.
"Different? Maybe. I would even say... unique. You felt it too, didn't you? A soul teetering on the edge of something grand... or terrible."
The priest hesitated. Deep down, he knew he no longer had his own thoughts. Everything he said or did now seemed guided by another will, an unrelenting kindness that left no room for doubt.
"I... I could bring him here. If you wish."
"Oh, Father, I wouldn't want to disturb your prayers. But if you think it's right, then maybe this child could... learn something."
...
The boy entered the chapel the next day. His steps were hesitant, but his eyes shone with a strange curiosity. The old man had convinced him to come, whispering words he didn't fully understand but could not refuse.
The entity sat in the shadow of the pews. Its silhouette seemed blurry, almost unreal in the flickering candlelight. It didn't move at first, letting the boy study it with natural suspicion.
"Are you the one the Father speaks of?" asked the boy, his voice as fragile as a thread.
"Maybe. And you, who are you?" replied the entity, its voice tinged with light amusement.
"I am... nothing. No one."
The entity raised an eyebrow, the corner of its mouth twisting into a smile that didn't quite reach its eyes.
"Oh no. No one is born 'nothing.' Every existence has meaning. You just have to listen."
It gently tapped the bench beside it. The boy hesitated, but finally moved closer, sitting at a cautious distance.
"Tell me... what are you looking for?" asked the entity, tilting its head slightly.
The boy shrugged. "Nothing. Just... for it to stop. All this."
A silence fell. The entity didn't answer immediately, eyes fixed on the boy's face as if searching the shadows in his heart.
"You're tired, aren't you? Tired of living in a world made to break you."
The boy nodded, almost imperceptibly.
"What if I told you there was another way? One where you don't have to fight anymore. Where everything becomes... simpler."
The boy turned his head toward it, intrigued despite himself. "How?"
The entity gently placed a hand on his shoulder, a gesture so tender it became almost suffocating.
"By accepting. Accept that this world is broken, and that you can be its master. Not by fighting it, but by embracing it. Learn to understand its absurdities, and they will become useful to you."
The boy frowned, but something in those words resonated deep inside him, a truth he had never dared to voice.
"I can teach you, if you want. But it will be up to you to decide what to do with what you learn."
The boy didn't answer immediately. Yet he already knew he would say yes.
...
In the following days, the entity became a discreet but constant shadow in the boy's life. Its words were always gentle, always imbued with disarming tenderness. But each lesson seemed to plant an idea, a small seed of discomfort, slowly growing within him.
"You see, being kind means understanding what others desire most deeply. Sometimes, what they want isn't what they need. That's where you can help them. Even if they don't realize it."
And little by little, the boy also began to smile. Not a smile of happiness, obviously, but a smile that hid something far more terrible...
...
The chapel bells tolled one last time that morning. A lugubrious echo stretched through the silent mountains, like a note suspended between two worlds. The child, sitting on the windowsill of his hut, gazed absentmindedly at the misty peaks. His thoughts drifted, carried by fragments of teachings he had received.
The master had disappeared.
It had happened without a word, without goodbye. Just a void, a silence where the once palpable presence of this man — or perhaps something more than a man — had dissipated. Even the village priest, now frozen in an unsettling calm, refused to speak of his absence.
Yet traces remained. In the words he had left behind, in the gestures he had taught. Traces that the boy, without even realizing, had integrated into his thoughts, into his being.
In the heart of the night, the boy wandered in the empty chapel. His fingers brushed the dusty pews, caressing the cold wood of the altar. He whispered, almost instinctively, words he did not fully understand. Words his master had whispered to him like promises wrapped in riddles.
"Everything born must break. But what breaks always rises stronger."
He stopped before a stone statue, an angel with wings eroded by time, whose eyes seemed to weep a pain no mortal could understand.
"To be kind is to protect. To be kind is to guide. To be kind... is to destroy, if it makes them better."
The words echoed in his mind, melodious and venomous, intertwining with his own thoughts until they became indistinguishable from his own inner voice. Was it his reflection, or a buried whisper that persisted despite the absence?
...
Over the days, the boy changed. It was subtle at first, almost imperceptible. His gaze grew more intense, not with anger, but with a devouring curiosity. A thirst to observe, to understand, and... to intervene.
The villagers, unknowingly, became his subjects of experimentation. A widow weeping before a grave? He whispered soothing words to her, but only to see how deep she could sink into her despair before emerging transformed. A child falling ill? He watched over the bedside but gave remedies only at the last moment—just enough for survival while touching the edge of abandonment.
And each time, he repeated the lessons he had been taught:
"Pain is a key. Let it turn the lock."
But he did not suspect that these thoughts were not entirely his own. They had taken root within him, implanted by a presence that, though vanished, continued to guide him in the shadow of his own reflections.
One evening, while the boy meditated alone in front of the chapel, a vision crossed him. He would never speak of it—not even to himself—but it would mark him forever.
He saw a blurry, indistinct silhouette, whose contours seemed to melt into the flickering candlelight. This figure had no face, no voice, yet it smiled. He knew it; he felt it. That smile was not an image but a pressure, a strange weight in his mind.
And with that smile, a promise.
"I never left. You are only continuing what we started together."
The boy straightened, breathless. The pain vanished, but something else took its place—a new conviction.
He convinced himself he had dreamed. But in the following days, every decision he made, every word he spoke, seemed guided by a deeper, broader logic than his own.
...
In that small lost village, no one ever understood why the boy they had known became, at the dawn of adulthood, a being of both fascinating and frightening complexity. Some feared him, others admired him, but all recognized in him an irresistible force, an authority he wielded effortlessly.
And yet, deep inside, there was a question they dared not ask: Was he still himself? Or was he merely an extension of something much older and unfathomable?
The answer. They would never truly seek. For it was hidden in the folds of their memories, in whispers they thought forgotten. In a promise erased but forever unbroken.
Author's Note : Before being a writer in my spare time, I am first and foremost a reader.
I've read many light novels, and lived through countless highs and lows along the way. It's alongside works like Reverend Insanity, Lord of the Mysteries, and many others that I grew up, shaped my critical mind, and forged a part of who I am today.
I have deep respect for all the authors who helped build the person I've become. Through this story, I hope to offer a modest tribute to them, with my humble writing skills.
"It is profound ignorance that inspires the dogmatic tone." — Jean de La Bruyère
And so begins our little story...