Following in Silence
Art comes back to Aeren and begins following him without hesitation. He follows the way a child follows his father—without question, without doubt, without knowing anyone else exists. There is no negotiation, no consideration of alternatives, only trust.
Aeren is the actual father of Art. Even though Art is born in nothingness, birthed from pure creation without bloodline or history, he recognizes Aeren on a fundamental level. That recognition is instinctive, written into his very being. It allows him to understand Aeren and walk behind him into the void.
Art cannot speak like G1 does. G1 learned to speak because G1 inhabited a human body—Samarth's body—and experienced language directly, felt it structure his thoughts, understood its power. Art does not have that advantage. Art is newly born. He is innocent. He has learned nothing yet. He does not know words. He does not know voice. He does not know how to form sound or meaning into transmissible thought.
What Art possesses instead is pure awareness of himself and instinctive control over his own existence. Because of that raw capability, Art breaks through and reaches the second Main Realm naturally—not through accumulated knowledge or understanding, but through recognition of his own being, his own nature, his own right to exist.
After gaining his twin universes—one that manipulates emptiness, one that generates it—Art gains fundamental balance. With that equilibrium, he is able to pass through all the smaller realms without struggle and stand solidly within the Second Main Realm. He becomes stable. He becomes whole.
Art continues walking behind Aeren in absolute silence. He does not know where they are going. He does not know what he will become. He does not ask questions or express doubt. He only knows one thing with perfect certainty: Aeren is before him. And that knowledge is enough.
The Door
Aeren stops walking abruptly. Before him, a Door stands in nothingness—solid, real, impossible.
Two-tenths of it are colorless, like nothingness itself, yet it still exists as a distinct entity. Its size is smaller than both Art and Aeren. As Aeren walks through nothingness, his painted form expands naturally—the more nothingness observes him, the more dazzling his cosmic beauty becomes. He is becoming larger, more radiant, more present with each moment.
Art is still a child by comparison. His form remains small, compact, still learning how to exist.
The Door stands alone, unmoving, unaware of Aeren and Art's presence. There is no up or down in this realm—yet the door stands as if such directions exist anyway, defying the logic of the void.
Aeren turns to Art deliberately and sends his words directly through the thread connecting them:
"Go consume this Door. It will raise your Realm. It will make you stronger."
Art looks at Aeren with confusion filling his gaze. The idea is simple, but its execution is utterly foreign to him. He has never consumed anything. He does not know if he can.
Then Art looks at the Door. It simply stands there in silence, waiting, neither welcoming nor threatening.
Art begins walking toward it slowly, carefully. Aeren speaks again, his tone calm but precise, carrying weight:
"It is dangerous. If you are even a little reckless, it will consume you faster than you consume it. Be careful, Art. This Door is not what it appears to be."
Aeren looks back at the Door and understands its nature completely. It is a twin universe—active both inside and outside simultaneously. If the door opens, the inner universe consumes what approaches it with relentless hunger. If the door closes, the outer universe consumes instead. Either way, whichever direction it goes, the Door devours everything.
Aeren recognizes its Realm precisely: It has reached the Universal Structure Control Realm, but only at its peak, not its perfect form like Art has achieved. They are matched in strength, yet different in structure.
Art is pure creation—uncontaminated, untainted, focused.
The Door stands still in nothingness, waiting—not knowing whether it will be consumed or become the one that devours. It is innocent in its hunger, like Art is innocent in his naivety.
Art steps closer, and Aeren watches carefully, knowing with absolute certainty that this moment will decide whether Art rises or disappears into the emptiness forever.
The First Attempt
Art follows Aeren's command and walks toward the Door with determination. As Art reaches out, about to pick up the Door with his hands, Aeren reminds him again sharply:
"If you touch the door, it will eat you. Don't grip it directly."
Art stops his hand mid-motion. He looks at the Door. Fear enters his being—subtle but present. Art does not know what else he can do. He has no knowledge to fall back on, no method, no understanding of strategy. Art knows only the thread—the one connection to Aeren, the one thing he truly comprehends.
Just as Aeren connects to him through a thread of communication, Art's hand forms a thread of pure emptiness. It manifests naturally, a thin line extending from his palm.
Art throws the thread toward the Door carefully. Nothing happens at first. Silence stretches. Then the Door begins consuming the thread with sudden violence. In an instant, the Door expands slightly—growing larger, stronger, more present. Art feels the change immediately and freezes in surprise.
The thread disappears completely, absorbed into the depths of the Door. The Door now stands noticeably larger than before, visibly transformed by its meal.
Art is shocked by the Door's consumption. He turns toward Aeren for guidance, for help, for some indication of what comes next. Aeren says nothing. He looks at Art with no expression on his face—no judgment, no disappointment, no praise. Yet the feeling is unmistakable and clear—like a father watching his child learn, while the child looks back, waiting to be shown the way. Waiting for guidance.
Aeren begins thinking deeply. What should a father do in this critical moment? Should he teach the child, offering knowledge and protection? Or should he leave the child to learn alone, through failure and struggle? Aeren does not know. He has never faced this question before.
He never needed anyone before. He always achieved what he wanted without help from others. That is how he lived—alone, relying only on himself. Now he wonders genuinely: Would helping Art change anything in himself? Would showing compassion let him see the Lie more clearly? Would it bring him closer to understanding?
Aeren remains silent for a long moment, considering both paths.
Then Aeren decides. He chooses to speak. He chooses to teach.
"Well, you can use this to help yourself," Aeren says, his voice carrying subtle warmth—the first true affection he has shown Art. "Let me show you something."
In Aeren's hand, different creations appear—a sword gleaming with starlight, a knife with edges of void, a sphere of compressed emptiness, and other weapons of creation. Each one is perfect, detailed, powerful. Aeren lets Art see them fully, displaying his mastery.
Art looks at Aeren's hand and reacts with pure awe. Wonder fills his expression. Then Art tries to do the same, attempting to create a weapon. He fails. He tries again. And again. Art struggles visibly, his form trembling slightly. He has never seen anything like this before, and because of that, he cannot create it immediately.
But he keeps trying. He does not give up. He persists through frustration and failure.
At last, after many attempts, Art manages to create a small knife. The knife is deeply imperfect. Its shape is uneven, wavering. Its edge is incomplete, jagged. Yet Art looks at it, then looks at Aeren, and smiles. He shows the knife proudly, happy with what he has created despite its flaws.
Aeren looks at Art and nods his head slowly. Recognition. Approval. Then he speaks:
"Well done. You created something. Now go—use that knife. Cut the Door into pieces and consume it."
Aeren gives the instruction, yet doubt remains inside him. He is not certain whether Art can truly accomplish this. Can his child survive this test? Will he be strong enough?
And so Aeren watches, waiting with genuine uncertainty, ready to see whether Art will fail, or grow beyond expectation.
Art looks at Aeren and nods his head firmly. Then Art turns toward the Door.
The Second Attempt
He throws the knife, just as he threw the thread before. The Door consumes it. The knife is too large for the Door to swallow at once, yet the Door continues consuming it anyway—slowly, steadily, pulling it inward. The Door opens. The inner Door consumes the thread it took before. The outer Door consumes the knife Art just threw. The twin structure works in harmony, feeding on everything offered to it.
Art watches the entire process. And something inside him breaks—not in the destructive sense, but in the developmental one. Almost breaks. He almost cries. He watches his effort, his struggle, his creation being eaten by a Door he has never met before, a Door that does not hesitate, does not respond, does not care about his pain or effort. It simply feeds.
Art turns again and looks toward Aeren desperately. Art does not know how to cry. He does not know how to weep. He has no tears, no vocal release for his pain. But Aeren can see it clearly. Aeren understands—Art is crying in a different way. The trembling in his form. The stillness of his gaze. The collapse of his small shoulders. This is Art's weeping.
Aeren sighs softly—a sound like wind through the void. As he looks at the Door, he realizes something new: This Door is more like a pet than a threat. Aeren forms a thought momentarily: "Should I create this Door as a companion for Art? Should I transform it into something he can control rather than fear?"
Aeren looks at Art. Then he looks at the Door. He does not decide. Not yet. He remains still, letting the moment exist, letting Art process his first failure.
But Aeren knows the truth: Art can easily consume the Door—it would be too easy, too simple. But that is not what Aeren wants Art to learn. Strength without wisdom is just violence. Power without understanding is just destruction.
The Lesson
Aeren turns back to Art and speaks calmly:
"Art, do it again. Try once more. But this time, follow my lead. Watch what I do and mirror it."
Art looks at Aeren, confused, yet still obedient. Art tries again to create a weapon. He struggles with focus and intention. Then he creates another knife—better than the last one, more stable, more defined, learning from his first attempt.
Art raises his hand, ready to throw it again. But Aeren speaks through the thread immediately:
"Don't throw it. Grip the knife. Keep it in your hand. Follow what I am doing with the Door."
Aeren raises his other hand deliberately. In it, a Door exists—perfectly formed, calm, controlled, not consuming anything. It simply rests in his palm, waiting.
Aeren shows it to Art. Art freezes. Awe fills him completely—not like before, but deeper, more profound. He sees the Door in Aeren's hand—peaceful, controlled, responding to its master's will. Art wants the same control. He wants that mastery.
He tries to create a Door. He fails. Aeren looks at Art gently and speaks with understanding:
"You don't need to create it. Just see it as that Door before you. See it as something you can understand and control. Do the same thing I am doing."
Art looks at Aeren. Then he nods with determination. He grips the knife, keeps his hand steady, and follows Aeren's instruction—watching carefully, learning not through words, but through presence, through observation, through the direct transmission of knowledge from father to child.
The Door before them waits in silence. Art waits. And the lesson begins to take shape.
The Demonstration
Aeren looks at Art. Art is doing well. He is learning. He is trying. His focus is clear.
Aeren speaks—his words slow, deliberate, final before the demonstration:
"Art, see this properly. Don't look away. Don't blink. If you cannot do this with emptiness, you will never be able to consume the Door. You will never reach the third realm. So focus here. Watch me completely."
Art stares with wide eyes of pure emptiness and follows Aeren's instruction with perfect attention. Nothing else exists for Art but Aeren's hand and the Door resting in it.
Aeren raises his hand slightly. His hand moves—and the Door vanishes.
There is nothing left in his palm. No trace. No remainder. No echo of its existence. Art sees nothing but emptiness. Art does not know what happens. He does not understand how the Door disappears. He only sees Aeren's hand move and something end—completely, utterly, finally.
Aeren speaks again, his voice carrying absolute authority:
"Do it."
Art nods. He does not want to disappoint Aeren. He does not want to fail his father.
Even though he does not understand the mechanism, even though fear spreads through him like poison, Art moves forward with courage. Sweat forms on his being—moisture, effort, the physical manifestation of his struggle. The Door still stands before him, silent, waiting, unknowing.
Art fears it. He fears that it will consume him. But Art steps closer anyway. He breathes emptiness. He prepares himself.
This time, he does not throw the knife away from himself. He keeps it in his hand. He grips it tightly. Art moves the knife forward and strikes the Door directly. The knife lands on the upper universe of the Door's twin structure.
It cuts.
The Door splits perfectly in half. The twin structure breaks—inner and outer separate, yet remain connected through invisible threads. One Door becomes two. Two remain as one. The Door still exists, but it is no longer whole. It is no longer dangerous.
Art stands there, knife in hand, emptiness trembling inside him with the echo of creation. And for the first time, Art does not feel eaten or diminished. He feels capable. He feels powerful. He feels like he is becoming something more.
Art looks at his hands. He looks at the cut Door. He looks at Aeren.
And in his gaze, there is no longer just obedience. There is understanding. There is the beginning of mastery.