Aether's light flickered, fraying at the edges.
"Do we truly die here to become new? If so, what was the point of greatness?"
Ghost's form seemed to harden, leaching warmth from the void. "Die? No. Not technically." A pause, thick as the tar-darkness. "A shiver of the self endures the forge. A single, scorched ember of who you were. That is the... extent of reincarnation here."
Its white heart pulsed—cold, final.
"People are not so different from stories. Burn them down, and the ash still remembers the shape of the flame. That's the point of living, no? But how many burns before the originality runs out? So make your current life fruitful."
Aether dimmed, his radiant form dulling.
"I can't ever meet my family again. Or maybe I will—but at this point in time, I won't."
His voice cracked with sadness, the light around him pulsing like a weakening heartbeat.
They paused their ethereal march. Aether reached out, brushing a leaf of the grainy, black trees.
The leaf rippled at his touch despite its solidity—recognizing him, or at least something about him.
"Why are we alone?" Aether whispered. Yet the void carried it as if it were a command.
"If this is the place after death, shouldn't it be full of people?"
The gaseous light around him swirled faster, matching the agitation in his voice.
"Family?" Ghost echoed, tone contemplative and sharp.
"What is a family again? Blood ties? Friendship? Trust? In my view, family is the world you find yourself in. As you relate to others—even minutely—you begin to understand them, even if just a little. Family, in short, is understanding."
Aether watched as Ghost went on a tangent. Could he stop? I'm getting annoyed, he thinks as black tendrils spawn from his right fingers subtly.
As Ghost spoke, the environment shifted. The trees stretched higher, branches reaching outward. The gaseous dark thickened, while the light receded slightly—as if reacting to the weight of Ghost's words.
Ghost laughed—not a cackle, not manic—just laughter that rang with absurdity.
"It's funny, isn't it?"
The sound rippled across the realm. Dark trees shivered. The swirling sky pulsed. For a moment, it felt like the entire world laughed with Ghost—as if the very concept of existence had become a cosmic joke.
Aether's frustration surged. His form flickered violently, spikes of light bursting outward, pushing back the darkness.
"What do you mean? You're confusing!" he snapped.
"Can't you just say it straight? You keep dancing around the truth. WHY are we the only ones here? Even if we're meant to be recycled, that doesn't explain the emptiness! Where is everyone?"
His voice rose in fury, each word sending out ripples of energy. The void responded violently.
His outburst triggered a shockwave of pure light, blasting back the dark. Trees bent under the sudden force. Leaves rustled like paper in a storm. Gaseous clouds boiled in a war of light and shadow.
"Aether," Ghost said calmly, as if untouched.
"The reason people aren't here is because you died in the ascending staff of the Dumb Sage."
Shadows around them formed a vague spear-shape, pointing skyward into the swirling void.
"Staff? Is he talking about the stem..." Aether wondered.
"I died in the staff too—specifically a section… around the middle," Ghost added.
"I did wish for a tree to grow there..."
As they spoke, one of the grainy trees began to change. Its bark thickened, branches curling in elegant symmetry—as if becoming the tree Ghost had once wished into being.
"My memory's a bit off. I don't have a brain to store it in, do I?" Ghost said with a half-laugh.
The swirling gases responded with little eddies of light and dark—like laughter in a language only the void understood.
"You're in this place because you died there too, but don't worry; as time goes by you'll see more people," Ghost continued. The shadow-spear pulsed faintly with energy.
"I'm not caught up with the—" Ghost stopped, watching Aether, who was staring down at his hands, lost in thought.
The conversation hangs in the air.
Aether says, "You are a bad teacher,"
His words echo through the void.
"But I am the only teacher here,
four thousand years employed.
My lessons span millennia.
Each death a chapter read.
Life, a folklore I've authored,
In realms both seen and unsaid.
Through eons I've observed and learned,
The rise and fall of all.
You stand before me, newly formed,
Your knowledge oh so small.
Bad teacher? No, just old.
My methods strange to you.
Life's folklore is my subject,
Each tale both false and true.
In this timeless classroom of existence,
Where light and shadow dance,
I am the madman, the Swordsman,
The guardian.
You're here by death.
Four thousand years of wisdom,
Cannot be quickly taught.
Patience, young one, is the key,
To unlock what you've sought.
So judge not the teacher eternal,
Whose lessons span all time.
For life's folklore is ever-changing,
A rhythm, a reason, a rhyme."