The name echoed in Saro's head like a dropped stone in deep water.
Riven.
His breath caught, and he instinctively took a step back. His hands trembled faintly at his sides, his body caught somewhere between fear and fascination.
"Who is Riven…?" he asked, voice low. "...What is Riven?"
Veylan turned, his eyes cold now, distant, as though speaking from some unreachable trench of memory.
"Born from betrayal," he said. "Fights with madness. Kills with precision."
His voice remained steady—but stripped of warmth.
"No one has stood before him… not even his own creator."
Saro flinched at the words.
"Wait…" he said, squinting. "Your colleague made him? And he can't stop him?"
Veylan gave a single, slow nod. His face unreadable.
"Exactly."
He folded his arms again.
"There's no known way to stop Riven. No protocol. No shutdown code. No kill switch."
He exhaled.
"We don't even know when he'll return…"
Saro leaned forward slightly, heart thudding, his voice sharper now.
"So he's not here now?"
Veylan leaned back against a console, arms still crossed.
"He's been gone for forty years," he said, almost tired. "We have no idea where he went… or what he's planning."
Saro held his head with both hands, fingers digging into his scalp.
"I… I don't get any of this!"
Veylan made a face—half scowl, half exhausted grimace.
"Then why the hell did I waste fifteen minutes explaining it to you?" he snapped. "Could've built three damn inventions in that time."
Saro raised a brow, letting a smirk crawl onto his lips.
"Three inventions in fifteen minutes?" he said. "Please. Look at you… you look like you need a walking stick."
Veylan scowled. Subtly, he flexed his arm.
"I still have a better physique than you."
Saro blinked, unimpressed.
"You got six-packs or something, old man?" he asked. "How old even are you?"
Veylan tilted his head, like he'd been waiting for that.
"You really wanna know?" he said. "Gonna make fun of me again?"
Saro paused—then shrugged, a bit softer now.
"No, actually. I'm sorry this time."
Veylan turned away slowly, gaze fixed on the glowing wall of servers behind him.
"I'm one hundred and twelve years old."
Saro's jaw dropped.
"112!?" he gasped. "HOW are you even alive? Most people drop by 80!"
Veylan smirked, as if that reaction was the most human thing he'd heard all day.
"Because I'm in better shape than you, kid."
Saro stared at him, frozen.
Then his grin—once wide and cocky—wilted into a tiny, stunned frown.
…deflates emotionally.
He looked to the floor, biting back any retort. His breath came slow now, quieter.
That one stung a little more than it should have…
Veylan glanced at him from the corner of his eye, something unreadable flashing across his face. His thoughts swirled behind the silence.
He's got spirit…
But he's lost.