"Now that we are talking about many things, I finally understand what I feel when I wake from sleep. And from what you asked me first… I suppose you don't intend on revealing your name to me, do you?" Vern asked, his eyes narrowing as he gazed into the shadowy figure's glowing stare.
"Yes. I do not intend to tell you my name," the figure replied in a low, assured tone that carried the weight of inevitability. "It is for you to discover who I am."
Vern's lips tightened. "But I probably won't even remember what happened here, will I?"
The figure said nothing. Its silence pressed heavier than any spoken truth. It only held Vern's gaze, and after a long pause, gave a single, deliberate nod.
The silence between them stretched until it felt like the air itself was trembling. Finally, the voice came again, deeper than before, almost reverberating within Vern's bones.
"So, Vern Kael," it said slowly, "I will ask you once more. If you were to face the same crucible in the future… if destiny placed you in that same moment again, would you choose differently? Would you change… or would you fall as that man did?"
The question hung like a blade over his head. For an instant, Vern's throat tightened; images flickered at the edge of his mind—faces, shadows, a burning memory he could not fully recall. He opened his mouth, but no words came.
The figure's eyes glimmered faintly, as though waiting not just for an answer, but for a truth hidden deep within him.
"If you truly want to know…" Vern's voice faltered as he fell into thought, his brows knitting tightly. "Then there is… an example I have in mind. And also—questions."
He paused, the weight of his unspoken thoughts pressing down on him. His eyes searched the figure's shadowed outline, trying to pierce through its veil. Finally, he drew a quiet breath and continued, his tone steadier.
"I know you are not simple… not someone who lacks knowledge or understanding. That much is clear." Vern's voice hardened with resolve. "So I want to clear my doubts. If I ask you—will you answer my question?"
For a moment, the figure said nothing. Its form rippled faintly, like a black flame swaying in a wind only it could feel. Then, in a voice deep and deliberate, it replied:
"Of course. Though I cannot reveal what I am, nor the true breadth of my objectives… I can answer your question."
The air grew colder with those words, as though the promise carried both a gift and a warning
Taking a deep breath, Vern steadied the storm of thoughts inside him. With resolve flashing in his eyes, he asked, "Are you… by any chance, responsible for my regression?"
The figure's form seemed to waver, the shadows coiling more tightly around it. Its voice came calm yet immovable, like stone against the tide.
"No. I am not in any way responsible for your regression. Though…" The figure's eyes glimmered faintly, as though catching some hidden light. "…I know this is your second life as the being named Vern Kael. Your return is not of my doing, nor have I placed you upon this path."
Vern's breath caught. For a moment, he could not tell whether relief or disappointment weighed heavier on his heart.
"So… you aren't," he muttered, his tone tinged with quiet frustration. His chest tightened with a strange mix of emotions—part of him almost wishing the figure had been the one behind it, if only to place the burden of an answer somewhere. That would have made things simpler, clearer.
Instead, his curiosity only deepened, and the mystery of the shadow before him grew heavier. If this being was not the one who had pulled him back through time, then who—or what—had? And why did this figure speak to him as though it already knew the truth of his fate?
"Okay… now answer my question," the figure reminded, its voice echoing faintly as though the very air bent to carry its words.
Vern's eyes narrowed, and he straightened his posture. "To answer your question, I'll have to give you an example of one such person. Are you willing to listen to that?"
"Yes," the figure responded without hesitation. Its voice was calm, assured, but there was a quiet gravity behind the single word—as though it already anticipated what Vern was about to say.
Vern drew in a deep breath, steadying himself. His chest rose and fell with the weight of emotions that had long been chained inside him. "Although it is an example on my part, it is also a question I seek answers to. I want to know… whether it is me who has the shallow understanding, or him."
His voice trembled slightly at the end, though his eyes did not waver. For a brief moment, silence reigned between them, thick and heavy. The figure tilted its head, the faint glimmer in its gaze sharp as a blade.
"I can answer," it said slowly, "but whether you will be able to accept that answer… depends entirely on you."
"Understandable," Vern murmured in response, his voice calm but carrying a faint edge of determination. He lifted his head and locked eyes with the figure. From his gaze alone the figure could discern much—questions unspoken, curiosity burning, a search for meaning, and a flicker of growing understanding.
"Once," Vern began slowly, his words measured, "there was a man… or rather, a child—born into a royal family. His life was untouched by war, untested by true strife. No competition, no hunger, no need to struggle. He was destined from the very start to become a king one day."
The shadows around them seemed to stir faintly as his words carried into the void, as though the memory of this tale itself weighed on the air.
"His path was written before he even took his first steps," Vern continued. "People believed he was blessed, chosen by the heavens. They saw only greatness in him… yet he had never fought for anything, never clawed his way through hardship. His throne was waiting. His crown already forged."
"Still," Vern went on, his voice lowering, "the people put their faith in him. They believed he would be their salvation, their great ruler, the one to guide them through peace and prosperity."
The figure said nothing. Its silence was not empty—it pressed on Vern like a hand against his chest, urging him to continue.
"He was only sixteen when he married," Vern continued, his tone softening as fragments of the tale spilled forth. "Rather young, you might say. And yet his wife…" Vern's lips curved faintly, though there was no joy in it, only a strange heaviness. "…she loved him with all her life. Her devotion was pure—so pure it could melt even the coldest stone with just her touch."
For a moment, Vern faltered. His words trailed off, and a shadow crossed his expression. "And yet…" he whispered, letting the weight of that pause linger like a blade left hovering above the heart.
"He left the castle one day," Vern continued, his tone low but steady, "to see what lay beyond those gilded walls. With his escort guard at his side, he stepped into the world he was meant to rule… and what he found shattered the illusions he had been raised in."
Vern's eyes darkened as he spoke, his words carrying a faint tremor. "He saw a rich man, tormented by worries over his gold, counting and recounting his wealth with fear etched into every line of his face. Then, a soldier—his body broken, suffering from wounds earned in battles that no one remembered, bleeding for a cause that had given him no reward. And then… a beggar, hunched and frail, holding out trembling hands for food that never came."
Vern paused, his voice heavy. "To see these things—men torn apart by greed, pain, and hunger—was like having the ground stripped away beneath his feet. He had lived untouched by such misery, but outside those walls… every soul seemed bound by chains of suffering."
His gaze lifted slightly, distant, as though replaying the scene in his mind. "And then… he saw a monk. Clothed in nothing but simple robes, no wealth, no crown, no burdens. The monk wandered freely, chanting the name of his god, untouched by fear, untroubled by hunger, unbound by responsibility. He was poorer than even the beggar, and yet…" Vern's words faltered as his brow tightened. "…he looked freer than anyone else."
Vern's throat bobbed as he swallowed, his voice sinking into a murmur. "That sight struck him deeper than any blade could. A king in waiting… and yet his heart wavered at the sight of a man who had nothing, yet carried himself as though he possessed everything."
The figure's silence stretched, heavy as a storm-laden sky. It did not move, did not speak—but its gaze sharpened, as if boring through Vern's very soul.