"Ahh… there are other things he preached. Let me tell you all of them," Vern said, his lips curving into a faint smile, a contentedness glimmering in his expression. For the first time, he looked almost at ease—relieved. It wasn't because his words carried joy, but because at last, someone was listening.
No one had ever listened before. In his previous life, whenever he voiced such thoughts, they branded him a heretic, a demon. His voice was drowned by ridicule, spat upon by blind faith, crushed beneath the weight of devotion to a boy they called divine. None dared even consider the possibility that his words might hold truth.
But in the depths of their silence, Vern had always sensed it. They weren't mocking him out of certainty—they were afraid. Afraid that his doubts might be right. Afraid that the man they proclaimed as a god was not a god at all, but only a child, lost in his own foolishness.
Vern's eyes gleamed as he raised his gaze to the figure before him. "This is the first time," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else, "that I can clear my understanding… that I can finally speak the truth I've always carried."
The shadows wrapped around the figure loomed larger, yet to Vern, it felt not like a threat but a promise. He believed—no, he knew—that this creature before him could answer anything. Every question, every doubt, every tormenting thought that had haunted him across lifetimes.
"Everything I want to know…" Vern's voice grew steadier, more resolute, as his smile deepened. "You can answer it. Isn't that right, figure?"
"Yes… apart from my identity and my objective, I can answer your questions and clear your understanding," the figure said at last, its voice low yet assuring, each word flowing with an ageless certainty.
"Hehe…" Vern let out a soft chuckle, his shoulders easing ever so slightly as though comforted by that promise. His eyes gleamed with a strange satisfaction, and with that small laugh, he began to speak freely, pouring out everything that had long festered within him.
"And the second-to-last preaching," Vern said, his tone thick with irony, "was about discarding all the so-called negative emotions—greed, hatred, anger, lust, and the like." His smile twisted as he leaned forward, his eyes narrowing into sharp slits. "Can you believe it? That boy… he preached such things without even experiencing them. Do you think he ever knew the bite of greed while living in a castle where everything was his to command?"
His lips curled into a sneer, the amusement in his voice now sharpened by disdain. "Greed… tell me, figure—is it possible for anyone to grow without greed? Without that hunger that drives us forward? Would humanity have ever reached beyond mud and fire if greed had not whispered in their hearts, urging them to take, to strive, to conquer?"
Vern's voice dropped lower, heavier, as his expression darkened. His smile remained, but his eyes glinted with cold fire. "And hatred—heh… what a laugh. Is it possible for one to live without it? Tell me—if your sister, your wife, someone dearer to you than life itself, were to be violated, defiled—would you not bear hatred? Would you smile in serenity and say it was nothing?"
His hand trembled slightly as he raised it, then clenched into a fist. The smile on his lips wavered, but did not break—it was the kind of smile that barely veiled a storm, a mask stretched over a fire threatening to burst free. "No… hatred is inevitable. Necessary. To discard it is to discard humanity itself."
He exhaled sharply through his nose, then leaned back, his smile slowly returning to its earlier calm, though the sharpness in his eyes betrayed the tempest within. "And yet, he dared say such things. As if emotions that cut us, that shape us, that make us bleed, could simply be discarded like old clothes."
Vern's voice grew sharper, his brows knitting together as he leaned forward, eyes gleaming with a mixture of scorn and conviction. "He said anger could burn the soul, so we should discard it. But why? Did anyone ever ask why it must be discarded? No—no one dared to ask, no one dared to question him. They just swallowed it whole, like sheep. Tell me, figure—if someone closest to you died because of your incompetence, would you not feel anger? If someone stole what should rightfully be yours, would you not feel the flames of fury tearing at your chest?"
His hand clenched unconsciously, veins rising against his skin, as though the very emotion he spoke of surged within him. His voice rose, raw with indignation. "Why should anger be treated like a curse, something to throw away? Isn't it proof that you loved, that you desired, that you fought to protect? Did that boy ever experience anger, sitting sheltered in his castle walls? Did he ever bleed from helplessness, did he ever claw against his own failure?"
His gaze hardened, lips curling into something between a sneer and a grim smile. "And who gave him the right—the right—to decide that such a vital, living fire was unnecessary for others? Who gave him the authority to strip humanity itself and call it enlightenment?"
The figure just listened, its vast and shadowy form unmoving, eyes gleaming with an eerie stillness that never once strayed from Vern. It did not interrupt, did not argue, nor did it attempt to soothe him with hollow words. It merely stood there, silent and patient, as though carved from the essence of night itself.
Vern could feel that silence pressing against him like a tide. Yet, strangely, it wasn't suffocating. No—the stillness was alive, receptive, as though every word he uttered was being etched into the figure's being. It was not the silence of ignorance, but of understanding.
And Vern, though he spoke with passion and frustration, knew this as well. He could feel it in the unwavering gaze fixed upon him—those eyes weren't just staring, they were listening, absorbing, weighing. He knew, with a certainty that surprised even himself, that this creature had the answers he sought. Answers that no human, no teacher, no so-called "sage" of his previous life had ever given him.
That was why he kept speaking. Why his words spilled forth without restraint. Because for the first time, he felt that his questions weren't being dismissed as heresy, nor his thoughts mocked as the ramblings of a demon. For the first time, someone—or something—was truly listening.
"Anger is the driving force for all living beings, don't you agree?" Vern's tone sharpened, his voice laced with an intensity that bordered on defiance. His brows knitted together, and his eyes gleamed with a fervor that made him look as though he were staring down the unseen boy he mocked. His chest rose and fell with each word, as if his own pulse carried the argument forward.
"A mother feels anger when her child does something wrong. Does that make her evil for feeling it? Does it make her love less beautiful?" His lips curled into a half-snarl, half-sneer, but his eyes carried an almost painful conviction, as though he demanded the very world to answer him.
"And when a father sees his child walking a path that must not be permitted, and in his fury, raises his voice or his hand to set things right—does that anger strip away his righteousness? Does it make his existence unnecessary?" Vern's hand clenched into a tight fist, knuckles white, trembling slightly with emotion. He leaned forward, his gaze unwavering on the silent figure.
"Hey, figure, don't you find this world quite amusing?" Vern's lips twisted into a bitter smile, his voice carrying both mockery and scorn. "Not so long ago—what, perhaps two hundred years?—a man dared to say this world isn't flat. He brought forth reason, evidence, facts that could not be denied." Vern's eyes narrowed, his voice dropping into a rasp. "And what became of him? He was thrown into a cage, like a wild animal, because his truth did not match the words carved into their sacred books. Because his voice clashed with the dogma they clung to like chains."
He gave a hollow laugh, shaking his head. "Tell me, does that not amuse you? That men can gaze at the vastness of the skies, the endless seas, yet still choose to believe parchment over their own eyes?"
"And that so-called enlightened boy…" Vern's voice dipped lower, almost sneering, "he spoke of lust as if it were sinful. Tell me—did he even realize that without that very emotion, he might never have been born?" He leaned forward slightly, his tone cutting with each word. "Did he reflect that every creature walking this earth exists because of it? That life itself, in its rawest form, springs from that drive?"
He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Why do most people love? Is it not, at its root, bound to desire? For some, yes—they chase only flesh. For others, bonds grow deeper, transcending desire. They love without lust. But what of the rest? Can one simply erase that primal flame and call it unnecessary?"
His expression hardened, voice cold with scorn. "To call lust useless, to condemn it outright—don't you think that's utterly naive? Excess—yes—like a fire out of control, it can consume, corrupt, destroy. But to deny its place at all? That is blindness disguised as wisdom."