After receiving his name, little Yuuta could not stop himself. He bounced around the bone hut like a small, excited creature, his energy boundless despite the weakness in his limbs and the lingering pain in his body. Every few minutes, he would run to Sophia, tug at her sleeve, and demand her attention with the desperate enthusiasm of a child who had never had anything to call his own.
"Sophia! Sophia!" He jumped up and down, his small hands waving in the air. "Call my name! Call my name!"
Sophia was crouched over a pile of bones, carefully scraping the last bits of meat from a rib with a sharpened stone. She had been working for hours, trying to build up a store of food for the winter, but Yuuta's constant interruptions made it nearly impossible to focus.
She sighed, but she could not help smiling.
"Yuuta Konuari," she said softly.
Yuuta's eyes widened with joy. A bright smile spread across his face, and he took off running around the hut, his arms spread wide like a bird learning to fly.
"I am Yuuta! I am Yuuta! I am Yuuta Konuari! Yaahhh!"
He ran in circles, his laughter echoing off the bone walls, filling the darkness with a warmth that had not been there before. His voice was hoarse from crying, raw from screaming, but he did not care. He had a name. He had a name, and someone was willing to say it.
Sophia hit her temple with the heel of her hand, shaking her head in mock regret. She had named him, and now he was more disruptive than ever. He had been calling his own name for twelve hours a day, repeating it over and over as if afraid that if he stopped, he would forget it.
But she was happy.
She watched him run, watched him laugh, watched him be a child for the first time in his life. Despite everything—despite the darkness, the hunger, the knowledge that no one was coming to save them—she was happy.
She had not been happy in years.
Later, they sat together at the edge of the well, looking up at the faint circle of light far above. It was not the sun—the sun never reached this depth. It was merely a lighter shade of darkness, a reminder that there was a world beyond the stone and the shadows.
Yuuta leaned against her side, his small body warm against hers. His legs swung over the edge, kicking at the air, and his red eyes were fixed on the distant light.
"Sophia sister," he said, his voice soft and curious. "What is outside the lab? Is it beautiful?"
Sophia paused. She looked up at the light, at the memories it stirred, at the world she had not seen in years.
"The outside world is beautiful, little Yuuta," she said.
"Really?" His voice was filled with wonder. "What is there up there? A new lab? New light? Injections? Knives?"
Sophia's eyes filled with tears. She blinked them back, refusing to let them fall.
"No, my little Yuuta. The outside world is not a lab. It is freedom. It is beauty."
"Freedom of beauty?" He tilted his head. "What are they? A new doctor project?"
She tapped his temple gently with her finger. "You dummy. I told you—the outside world is not under the doctor. It is under God."
"God?" He scrunched up his face, confused. "What is that? An animal? Is it strong like ogres or dragons?"
Sophia smiled, though her heart ached.
"No, God is not an animal. God is a being of justice. He sees what is right and what is wrong, and He punishes evil."
"Evil?" Yuuta's brow furrowed deeper. "What is evil?"
Erza watched from the shadows of the memory, her heart breaking. He did not know. He had suffered so much, endured so much, been subjected to so much cruelty—and he did not even know what evil was. He had no name for the things that had been done to him. He had no framework for understanding that the doctors who fed him were also the ones who hurt him.
He was innocent. Completely, utterly, heartbreakingly innocent.
Sophia struggled to explain. "Dummy, just remember this. God created the world. The doctor is evil. He did not let you see the world."
"Doctor is evil?" Yuuta's voice was uncertain. "Why? He fed Yuuta. He gave Yuuta food."
Sophia's voice was gentle but firm. "Did he not hurt you? Did he not make you suffer?"
Yuuta tilted his head, genuinely confused. "Is that wrong?"
Sophia's heart broke. She took his small hands in hers, holding them tightly.
"Yes, my little Yuuta. It is wrong. No one can hurt you without your permission. If you do not allow it, no one has the right to hurt you."
Yuuta looked up at her, his red eyes wide and confused. He had never considered that he had a choice. He had never considered that he could say no. The doctors had never asked for his permission. They had simply taken, and he had simply endured.
"But if Yuuta says no to hurting," he said slowly, working through the logic, "then Yuuta will not get food. And Yuuta will die."
Sophia pulled him into her arms, holding him tight against her chest. Her hand stroked his hair, and her voice was soft, almost a whisper.
"Has this sister ever hurt you for giving you food?"
Yuuta shook his head against her shoulder. "No. Sister Sophia never hurt Yuuta."
"Why?"
Yuuta pulled back, confused. "I do not know."
"Because you are my family," Sophia said. "And family never hurts each other."
Yuuta's eyes widened. He pointed at his own chest, his small finger pressing against his heart.
"Yuuta is family?" he asked, his voice filled with wonder.
"Yes, my Yuuta. You are my family. My little brother. The one with whom I share my food."
Yuuta's eyes filled with tears—the thick, slimy tears that the experiments had left him with, but tears nonetheless. He looked at her, searching her face for any sign of deception, any hint that she was lying.
"That means you will not hurt me? And you will still feed me?" he asked, trying to understand.
Sophia smiled. "Have I not already been doing that?"
Yuuta's face broke into a wide, joyful smile. He threw his arms around her neck and hugged her tightly.
"Yuuta is happy," he said.
And for the first time in his life, he meant it.
Sophia and Yuuta spent hours talking about the world. She told him stories from the beginning—how the world was created, how the sun rose and set, how the seasons changed and the flowers bloomed. She described mountains that touched the clouds, their peaks white with snow, their slopes covered in forests of green and gold. She described rivers that sparkled in the sunlight, their waters so clear that you could see the fish swimming beneath the surface. She described oceans so vast that you could stand on the shore and watch the water stretch to the horizon, endless and blue, meeting the sky in a line that never seemed to end.
Yuuta listened with wide eyes, his imagination struggling to picture things he had never seen. He had never felt the warmth of the sun on his skin—only the cold of the lab, the heat of burning instruments, the strange, sterile temperature of the healing fluids. He had never seen a tree—only the metal walls of the facility, the glass of the tubes, the cold stone of the well. He had never smelled a flower—only the stench of blood and chemicals and the damp, rotting smell of the darkness.
But he trusted Sophia. He did not understand everything she said, but he knew she was not lying. Her voice was soft and gentle when she spoke of the world, and her eyes grew distant, as if she were seeing something far away that he could not see. She spoke of the world with a longing that made his chest ache, a homesickness for a place he had never known.
She taught him about trees—tall, green things that swayed in the wind and provided shade from the sun. Their leaves changed color in the autumn, she said, turning from green to gold to red before falling to the ground like tiny flames. Their roots dug deep into the earth, holding the soil in place, and their branches reached toward the sky as if praying.
She taught him about mountains—giant piles of rock that reached toward the sky, older than any living thing. Some were so tall that their peaks were covered in snow even in summer, and the air was so thin that you could barely breathe. Others were covered in forests, their slopes dotted with caves and waterfalls and hidden valleys where no human had ever set foot.
She taught him about rivers—flowing water that was clean and clear, not dark and stagnant like the pool in the well. You could drink from them without getting sick, she said. You could wash your face in them and feel the cold water wake you up. You could follow them to the sea, and the sea would take you anywhere you wanted to go.
She even taught him about magic. Not the dark, cruel magic that had been used on him—the magic of the dark elf, the runes carved into his flesh, the serums forced into his veins. But the old magic—the magic of the elves, the magic of nature, the magic that made flowers grow and stars shine. She showed him how to cup his hands and gather the faint light of the fire, how to whisper words that made the shadows dance, how to feel the pulse of the earth beneath his feet.
Yuuta did not understand everything. He had never seen a tree or a mountain or a river. He had never felt the warmth of the sun or the coolness of a gentle breeze. He had never tasted clean water or smelled a flower or heard the sound of birds singing.
But he listened, and he learned, and he began to believe that there was more to the world than pain.
One night—or what passed for night in the darkness of the well—Yuuta looked up at the faint circle of light far above. The moon was visible tonight, pale and distant, surrounded by tiny pinpricks of brightness that he had never noticed before. He pointed at them with a small, curious finger, his red eyes wide with wonder.
"Why are there bulbs up there?" he asked.
Sophia looked up. She had almost forgotten what the stars looked like. She had spent so long in the darkness that she had stopped looking up, stopped hoping, stopped believing that there was anything above her except more stone.
"Those are stars," she said, her voice soft. "They are small, little lights that watch over children like you."
"Children like me?" Yuuta's voice was confused, uncertain. "Why?"
"So that they can watch over you," Sophia said, "and tell God how good you were."
Yuuta's eyes widened. His small face, still bruised and scarred, lit up with something that might have been hope.
"Really? Will God hear Yuuta's story? Does He love me?"
Sophia hesitated. She wanted to say yes. She wanted to give him that comfort, that hope, that belief that someone in the universe cared about him. She wanted to tell him that God loved him, that the stars loved him, that the moon loved him, that someone in this cold, cruel world had been watching over him all along.
"Yes," she said. "God will love you. He made you, remember?"
But Yuuta's face crumpled. His eyes filled with tears—the thick, slimy tears that the experiments had left him with, the tears that were not quite water, not quite anything. They clung to his lashes, heavy and slow, and dripped down his cheeks like warm syrup.
"But God did not make Yuuta," he said, his voice breaking. "The doctor made Yuuta."
He cried. Not loudly, not with the wailing of a child who expected comfort. He had learned long ago that crying did not bring comfort. It only brought more pain, more experiments, more reasons for the doctors to hurt him.
So he cried softly, quietly, the way he had learned to cry when there was no one to hear him. His shoulders shook, and his breath came in short, ragged gasps, and his small hands pressed against his chest as if he were trying to hold himself together.
"How can God love Yuuta?" he sobbed. "Yuuta was not made by Him. Yuuta was made by the doctor. Yuuta is a thing. A tool. A weapon. Not a person."
Sophia pulled him into her arms, holding him tight against her chest. Her hand stroked his hair, and her voice was soft, gentle, patient.
"There, there," she said. "Why are you such a crybaby? Did I not name you because you were brave?"
Yuuta sniffled, trying to stop his tears. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, smearing the thick liquid across his cheek.
"But God will not love Yuuta," he said. "Yuuta was not made by Him. Yuuta was made in a tank. Yuuta is fake. Not real."
Sophia pointed up at the sky. "If that is true, then why is the moon watching little Yuuta?"
Yuuta blinked. His tears stopped. His breath caught.
"The moon... watching Yuuta?"
She pointed to the faint circle of light far above—the moon, pale and distant, visible even through the darkness of the well. It was not the full moon, not the bright moon, but a sliver of silver, a crescent that hung in the darkness like a smile.
"See? There is the moon. It is here to see where little Yuuta is hiding."
Yuuta's eyes widened. He looked at the moon, then at Sophia, then back at the moon. His mouth opened, but no words came out.
"Does the moon really love Yuuta?" he asked, his voice small and fragile. "Is it here to see Yuuta?"
Sophia smiled. It was a gentle smile, a sad smile, a smile that held more pain than joy.
"Of course it is. Do you not believe your sister?"
Yuuta was confused. He wanted to believe. He wanted to believe that something in the universe cared about him, that someone was watching over him, that he was not completely alone. But he had been lied to so many times. He had been promised comfort and given pain. He had been promised food and given needles. He had been promised healing and given more wounds.
"Try to run," Sophia said. "See if the moon follows you."
Yuuta hesitated. His small feet were bare on the cold stone, and his body still ached from the experiments. But he wanted to know. He needed to know.
He took off running.
He ran across the floor of the well, his small feet splashing through puddles, his arms pumping at his sides. The bones crunched beneath him, and the shadows flickered around him, and his breath came in short, sharp gasps.
He looked up, and the moon was still there. Still watching. Still following.
He tried to hide behind a pile of bones. The moon was still there, peeking through the gaps, silver and patient.
He ducked behind a rock. The moon was still there, waiting for him, watching him.
He covered his eyes with his hands, peeking through his fingers. The moon was still there, a sliver of light in the darkness, a smile in the sky.
"Sophia! Sophia!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the walls. "The moon loves Yuuta! The moon loves Yuuta!"
He jumped up and down, his laughter filling the darkness. His tears were gone, replaced by joy, by wonder, by the simple, childlike belief that someone in the universe cared about him.
"Moon!" he called out, waving his small hand at the distant light. "Tell God about Yuuta! Yuuta loves God! Tell Him! Tell Him Yuuta is here! Tell Him Yuuta is real!"
Sophia smiled, even though she knew it was a lie. The moon was not following him. The moon was not watching him. The moon was simply there, distant and indifferent, as it had always been. It did not care about Yuuta. It did not care about her. It did not care about anyone.
But for a moment—for a single, precious moment—Yuuta believed that he was loved. He believed that someone was watching over him. He believed that he was not alone.
And that was enough.
Erza and Isvarn watched in silence.
Erza's heart ached. She wanted to reach into the memory, to hold that small, believing child, to tell him that he was right to hope, that he was right to believe, that someone in the universe did care about him. She wanted to tell him that she loved him, that she would always love him, that she would spend the rest of her life making sure he never doubted again.
But she could not. She could only watch. And wait.
Isvarn watched too. He watched the elf girl and the human boy, and he felt something he had not felt in centuries. Something that might have been pity.
He pushed it aside.
To be continued...