"Now it's your turn—answer me. Is my understanding shallow?" Vern asked, his voice carrying both defiance and a strange vulnerability as he met the figure's unblinking gaze. His chest rose and fell unevenly, his fingers curling into fists at his sides as though to hold himself together.
The figure, vast and shadowy, did not respond immediately. It only stared at him in silence, its glowing eyes fixed upon Vern like two lanterns burning in the dark. The weight of its gaze pressed down on him, and for a fleeting moment, Vern felt as though every breath he took was being measured, weighed, judged.
At last, the figure's voice rumbled low, ancient, and solemn.
"Vern… I have already read through your memories—seventy long years of life etched into your soul. I have seen the struggles you endured, the countless hardships you bore, and the sins you committed time and again… all in pursuit of what you desired."
Its words resonated like thunder rolling across an empty valley, each syllable stirring the air with both accusation and a strange, almost pitying acknowledgment.
"And I am well aware of what you wanted to convey through that story," the figure said, its voice calm yet heavy, echoing with a weight that seemed to press into Vern's chest. "Although you have committed many sins—sins that most would say are impossible to forgive—it does not matter to me. What matters is your resolve, your will to push forward despite everything. Though I cannot reveal my name to you now, when the time comes, you will know who I am…and what I truly seek."
Vern's brow furrowed as the words settled over him.
"That aside…your understanding isn't shallow. If anything, it is very deep—that is precisely why I have chosen you," the figure continued, the faint glimmer of something unreadable flashing in its glowing eyes.
"Chosen me?" Vern echoed, his voice tinged with skepticism. He frowned, a line forming between his eyes. "Oh…right. It won't mean anything, though. I don't even know who you are—and you won't reveal it to me, right?"
A low, almost amused hum rolled from the figure. "But what truly matters is the question you asked, isn't it? Yes…you are right. Without experiencing hardships, one cannot gain true enlightenment. To claim that life has meaning without suffering is nothing but naivety—a frog in a well does not know the world beyond the walls of its well. Similarly, unless one endures the weight of life's hardships, one cannot truly understand what life itself is."
The figure's voice resonated through the shadowed space, calm yet unwavering. "You are an enlightened being, Vern. You have succumbed to anger, yet you do not deem it unnecessary. You have felt hatred, yet you do not dismiss it as worthless. You have been killed because of greed, yet you do not despise yourself for it. And though you do not feel lust towards anyone, you do not consider it unnecessary. You have suffered immense hardships, and have lost those who were dear to you before your very eyes—but still, you do not resent the hardships themselves."
Vern's chest tightened as the words sank in, each one striking a chord deep within him. His mind began to drift, memories flooding back unbidden—the faces of those he had loved and lost. Charlotte… the way she had perished, the despair etched into her final moments. The agony of realizing that he could not save her. And Eli… the memory of her taking her last breath to shield him from an enemy.
A sharp sting pricked at his nose, the familiar tingle of tears threatening to spill. "Eli…" he whispered, the name catching in his throat. Recalling her, feeling the weight of her sacrifice, made his heart ache as if the wound of her loss had never fully healed. His hands clenched involuntarily at his sides, nails biting into his palms, as the surge of memories pressed on him—painful, vivid, and yet strangely grounding.
"Now… it isn't the time yet. You will understand and learn more about me, and when that time comes, you can be—"
The figure's words faltered, trailing off as its form began to dissolve into shadow, flickering like smoke caught in a gust of wind.
Vern's chest tightened. "Hey… although I don't know who you are, one day, I will learn your name—and I will control it, just as you wanted me to."
With that, the figure vanished completely, melting into the darkness. Vern's vision grew heavy, as if a weight pressed upon his eyelids, and he sagged back against the ground, closing his eyes. The lingering echo of the figure's presence and words seemed to hum in his ears, leaving a strange mix of unease and determination curling in his chest.
*****
"Haa…" Vern exhaled as he stirred awake in his room, the weight of sleep clinging stubbornly to his body. He lay on his bed for a moment, staring at the dim ceiling, before letting out a heavy sigh. Slowly, he raised a hand and pressed his fingers against his temple, massaging it as though he could rub away the fog clouding his thoughts.
So it was a dream? The words circled in his mind, uncertain, almost hollow. Yet even as he tried to dismiss it, a strange unease lingered in his chest. There had been… something. A presence, a heaviness that still pressed faintly against his ribs.
But I can't recall anything from it. His brows furrowed. It was as though a veil had been drawn over his memories the moment he opened his eyes—he could sense there had been something important, but the details slipped through his grasp like water through clenched fists.
"That strange sensation…" he muttered under his breath, his hand falling limply to the side. "For a whole year, was it only a dream? And the contents…"
He closed his eyes again, searching, straining to seize even a fragment. But nothing came—no words, no images, only the vague aftertaste of significance, the ache of something just beyond his reach. The harder he tried, the further it seemed to slip away, leaving him with only frustration and a hollow void of forgetting.
Vern sat upright, dragging a weary hand through his hair. His breathing steadied, but his expression darkened. "I can't… remember." The admission felt heavier than it should, as if the dream itself had taken something from him, something he wasn't aware he had lost.
With another sigh, Vern swung his legs off the bed and stood, his body still carrying the sluggish heaviness of sleep. He glanced toward the small clock on the table. 9:39. Later than he'd expected. Clicking his tongue softly, he dragged himself toward the bathroom.
The splash of cold water against his face grounded him, though it did little to clear the haze in his mind. He lingered a moment, gripping the edges of the basin, watching the rivulets of water drip down his reflection. "Forget it," he muttered, straightening. A dream was a dream—no matter how strange.
A short while later, he emerged, toweling his hair dry, and reached for his clothes.
Thum!
The door slammed open with a force that made the frame rattle.
Vern jerked his head up, startled, only to find Edward standing in the doorway with his usual grin plastered across his face, as if the morning belonged to him alone.
"Finally awake, lazybones!" Edward chuckled, hands on his hips, his energy filling the room in stark contrast to Vern's sluggish state.
Edward was already dressed in the crisp uniform of Nalanda Institute's first years, the deep-colored fabric neat and freshly pressed. Unlike most, he hadn't bothered storing his sword in subspace. Instead, it hung proudly at his waist, the polished hilt catching the morning light as though he wanted everyone to see it.
"Hey, get ready," he said cheerfully, brushing a strand of hair back as his grin widened. "Charlotte and Salena already left for the academy—their classes were scheduled earlier. So, we should get going too."
Vern, not in the mood to waste words, simply gave a short nod. His movements were brisk but efficient as he slipped into his uniform, fastening the buttons with steady hands. He tied his hair loosely behind his back, a few strands still falling stubbornly over his forehead. Once ready, he adjusted his collar, glanced at Edward, and gave a small gesture with his hand. Lead the way.
Edward smirked faintly at the gesture but didn't comment. For once, he let the silence linger, turning on his heel and stepping out of the room with an easy stride. Vern followed close behind, the two of them walking in quiet contrast—Edward radiating his usual carefree energy, Vern composed and restrained, his thoughts still lingering faintly on the remnants of the dream he could no longer recall.