After somehow managing to calm Edward—who had nearly broken down Salena's door in a desperate attempt to reclaim the tattered remnants of his dignity and pride—he finally managed to lull the boy into an uneasy sleep.
"Haa…" He let out a long, weary sigh, the sound heavy with exhaustion as he leaned back and closed his eyes. For a moment, silence pressed in around him, broken only by the faint rhythm of Edward's unsteady breathing.
It's been about a month since I set things in motion, he thought. A month of careful steps, calculated risks, and sleepless nights. Though the path had been harsh, filled with obstacles at every turn, he had clawed his way forward and now had a firm grip on the situation. Piece by piece, he was weaving his plan into reality.
Slowly. Steadily. Relentlessly.
And yet, a shadow lingered in his mind. A few more months—no more than that—and whispers would begin to stir. People would grow suspicious of the strange currents running beneath the surface, of the subtle shifts in power and the quiet manipulations he had sown. If he misstepped even once, everything could collapse.
I must be careful, he told himself, clenching his fists in the dim light. Careful… or all of this will come crashing down.
It will be difficult to release 'that' thing… and the pawn as well. Unless his greed swells to the point of consuming him, the power will never be enough.
He exhaled slowly, his chest tightening as the weight of his schemes pressed down on him. Sigh… Bhism Sunkul… The name alone left a bitter taste in his mouth. That man was a nuisance beyond compare—ridiculously powerful, dangerously sharp, and the one person most likely to notice if the threads began to unravel.
If anyone grows suspicious, it will be him.
Still, he steadied his mind. External intervention wasn't something he needed to fear, not yet. The entire city lay under the academy's dominion; its reach stretched into every street, every household, every shadowed corner. Within these walls, nothing moved without the academy's silent approval. Every breath of this city was managed, monitored, and controlled.
And that, at least, bought him time.
Hmm… I should get some proper sleep. It's been a month since I last rested enough. Muttering to himself, he forced his thoughts to still, let the tangle of schemes slip from his grasp, and allowed the slow tide of drowsiness to drag him under.
---
"Hm? Where… am I?"
His voice echoed strangely as his eyes flickered open. Darkness stretched endlessly in every direction—thick, suffocating, alive. He tried to move, but only half of his body responded, the rest numb and unfeeling, as though swallowed by an unseen void. Even the part he could feel was vague, translucent, as if he were fading into the shadows themselves.
A chill rippled through him.
Something was wrong.
"Where… the hell is this?" His voice cracked as it bounced through the void. The last thing I remember… I was in my room, drifting into sleep. But this… what is this place?
A chilling thought slithered into his mind. Was I… killed—
He couldn't even finish the thought. His breath caught, a sharp gasp tearing from his throat as his eyes widened. Someone was there.
A man.
A man with long, black hair that flowed down his back—just like his own. He wasn't facing him, but even from behind, he could feel the weight of recognition settle in his chest. The figure was older, his frame broader, his presence heavy.
The man's shoulders sagged, not from weakness, but from sorrow—sorrow so profound it seemed to seep into the darkness itself. Each line of his slumped posture screamed of grief, of burdens too great for any soul to carry.
And in that instant, he knew.
He knew who the man was.
It was him.
Vern Kael.
But not the Vern of now—this was Vern in his previous life, when he had been twenty-three, perhaps twenty-four.
His heart pounded as he steadied his breath and took a cautious step forward. The closer he drew, the clearer the sound became—soft, ragged sobs echoing through the endless dark, each one heavy enough to make the void itself tremble.
The man stirred. Slowly, as though pulled from some deep abyss, he turned his head. Tear-streaked cheeks caught the faint, formless light that clung to the darkness, and his eyes met Vern's without surprise, as though he had expected this encounter all along.
When he rose fully to face him, Vern froze. The man's face was gaunt, carved by sorrow, and across his chest ran a jagged scar that stretched upward, cutting cruelly toward his collarbone—a wound that seemed to burn even in memory.
"So… Charlotte died, I presume?" Vern's voice was low, almost cautious, as his gaze fixed on the man before him.
The older Vern did not answer. He only stood there, shoulders trembling, lips pressed tightly together as though the words were locked inside him. His bloodshot eyes glistened, tears pooling at the edges, yet he fought them back with desperate restraint. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white, as if holding in his grief was the last shred of dignity he could cling to.
Vern tilted his head, his expression somewhere between curiosity and disdain. A faint smirk touched his lips, though his eyes remained sharp, merciless.
"How utterly pitiful," he said, his tone slicing through the silence. "Why are you holding those tears back? Are they shameful to you? Or do you think they make you weak?"
The man's lips quivered, his throat working as if to speak, but no sound came. His eyes trembled violently, and with every passing second the sorrow carved deeper into his face, threatening to shatter the fragile dam he had built inside himself.
"Ah… I remember. I was once like that, wasn't I?" Vern's eyes softened for a moment, though a faint smile lingered on his lips. "Yes… that was back when I thought of life in an entirely different manner."
He paused, letting the silence stretch, then leaned in slightly, his tone sharpening.
"But do you know what I learned after experiencing that life?"
The older Vern remained motionless. His chest rose and fell unevenly, his lips parted, but no words escaped him. Only silence answered—thick, suffocating, almost accusatory.
"Enlightenment… and meaning." Vern's voice rang with pride, his chin lifting as though declaring a truth carved into stone. "Life isn't a fairy tale. And yet—" he chuckled faintly, his eyes glinting, "—in some ways, it is. Don't you think so?"
He took a step closer, his presence pressing down like an invisible weight.
"A human lives, what… ninety, maybe a hundred years at most? If they're lucky. If they're a warrior, or a mage, they can stretch that span further. But tell me—" Vern's smile turned sharp, almost mocking—"what's the difference?"
The older Vern's fingers twitched at his side, his gaze wavering as though the words cut deeper than any blade.
"There was once a man who lived for two hundred years," Vern said, his voice steady but laced with scorn. "Two centuries of breath and heartbeat—yet he spent every moment worrying about himself, endlessly questioning how he should live and searching for reasons to keep going. Even after all that time, he never grasped what life truly was. In the end, he looked back and saw only wasted years—chained by laws, bound by responsibilities, shackled so tightly he could never reach for what he truly desired."
His eyes narrowed, and his tone grew sharper.
"But then there was another man." A faint smile tugged at Vern's lips. "He lived only thirty years. Thirty, knowing full well that death would come for him soon. And yet, he lived those years as he pleased. He seized what he wanted. He walked his path without bowing to anyone, without letting shackles weigh him down. His life was short—yet far freer, far fuller—than the man who lived for centuries."
Vern's gaze bore into the older figure, his words heavy with both pride and accusation.
"Bu… but Charlotte died." His voice cracked as he staggered back a step, his eyes wide with torment. The dam of restraint finally shattered, and the tears he had held back for so long spilled freely down his face. "She… she died because of me…" The words came in broken fragments, torn between sobs, each syllable weighed down by guilt.
Vern's gaze sharpened, his expression cold and unyielding.
"So?" His tone cut through the darkness like a blade. "Can you bring her back?" He leaned closer, his eyes burning with cruel clarity. "Or are you planning to join her by ending your life? Tell me—is that the meaning you were searching for? Was that it?"
His words struck like hammer blows, merciless and deliberate.
"Did you think that without suffering, you could gain everything you wanted—just like in a fairy tale?" Vern's lips curled into something between a sneer and a smile. "How naïve."
The older Vern trembled, his sobs turning into choked gasps as shame, grief, and rage clashed violently within him.