The Accidental Meeting
Aeren had been stepping backward carefully, deliberately trying not to disturb the moment. He did not want to interfere with Swapn's peace, did not want to shape this creature's life with his presence. He was about to slip away entirely—when his foot caught a dry branch hidden beneath fallen leaves.
The sound was sharp and unmistakable.
Crack.
The branch splintered, the noise cutting through the forest's gentle silence like a blade. Swapn's entire body stiffened. His mythical form tensed, instincts flaring. Aeren froze. He gave an awkward smile and looked at Swapn, uncertainty crossing his borrowed human face.
Even Aeren could not tell if this had been intentional or accidental. He knew—with absolute certainty—that he could have left without being noticed. His power allowed it. Invisibility, undetection, absolute concealment. These things were trivial for what he had become. Yet as he stood there, smiling that awkward smile, he genuinely did not know if he himself had chosen this moment, or if this human form he had constructed wanted something he no longer did.
Aeren had placed all emotion, all reaction, into this human body deliberately. He had given it autonomy, let it respond naturally. And now, for the first time in eons, he questioned:
Perhaps this form reacts on its own. Perhaps it wants to meet someone it recognizes, wants connection in a way I have forgotten.
The thought troubled him. Should he stay and understand this feeling? Should he let this human consciousness expand, grow, want things? Or would it be wiser to erase this awareness entirely and return to his true self?
The question hung in the silence between them.
The Interrogation
Swapn looked at Aeren. Shock flashed in those mythical eyes as he noticed the smile—the unmistakable expression on this stranger's face. He was startled, genuinely unable to believe that he had not sensed this person at all. How had he not noticed? His senses should have caught even a whisper of another's presence.
Yet Swapn did not react aggressively. He had been playing with the child he had created, distracted by simple joy. Perhaps that was why he had not noticed. Perhaps kindness had made him careless.
Swapn steadied himself and looked at Aeren again, searching for threats, for deception, for danger. He could have questioned him harshly. He could have demanded answers with the authority of a being far beyond mortal comprehension. But before he could speak, Aeren beat him to it.
"Senior, I apologize for disturbing you," the young man said, his head slightly bowed, his smile faint and uncertain. "I am about to leave."
His eyes briefly glanced at the small dragon-wolf creature before him—beautiful, wild, powerful in its freedom. Aeren was already turning to go when Swapn's voice stopped him cold.
"Stop."
Aeren froze. Confusion flickered across his face. He did not turn back immediately. Instead, he exhaled softly, as if steeling himself for what came next.
Swapn's tone shifted, became heavier. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its warmth.
"How did you reach this place? This forest is too dangerous for someone like you. Tell me—who are you?"
His voice became calm, then cold. The coldness settled over the clearing like winter frost, and when Swapn finished speaking, it resonated toward Aeren like judgment itself. Aeren turned to face him fully.
He gave that same awkward smile—perfectly human, perfectly afraid, exactly what a youth in danger would show.
"Senior, you don't need to worry about me," Aeren said carefully. He paused, gathering his story as if piecing together fragments of a traumatic memory. "I recently started my cultivation, but I ran into trouble. There were demons hunting me. They wanted my heart—for their own power, I suppose. So I fled into this jungle to survive. Somehow, I ended up here."
Aeren laughed awkwardly, and the sound was entirely convincing—the nervous laugh of someone frightened and lost.
"I thought of resting here, but... well, you found me instead."
His body language remained cautious throughout, his tone respectful, everything about him screaming youth and vulnerability. Then he added, as if it were the most natural thing:
"As for who I am—my name is Aarav Dev."
Swapn studied him closely, searching for deception, sensing for lies with whatever cosmic awareness remained to him. The words were true—or at least they contained no falsehood. This human form spoke truth, or a version of truth so carefully constructed that it contained no actual lie. Swapn looked at the young man again and slowly nodded his head.
The creature saw the torn clothes, the injuries painted carefully across this borrowed body. As he observed, pity rose within him—not from logic, but from something deeper, something Art had taught him. His nature, shaped by becoming, shaped by growth, shaped by Art's own kindness toward him, emerged naturally:
"Come in. Stay here and rest. When you feel better, you can return to where you came from."
The Recognition
Aeren stood stunned for a moment. He was genuinely shocked that Swapn would show such kindness to a complete stranger—to someone he did not know, had no reason to trust. In that moment of silence, Aeren understood something profound about his creation.
This was the same kindness Aeren had once shown to Art when Art was newly created and uncertain of existence itself.
Swapn had learned. Swapn had genuinely grown beyond what Aeren had made him.
The dragon-wolf creature turned and began leading the way deeper into the palace. Aeren remained motionless for a moment, not moving, simply observing this being that was both his creation and now something independent. He looked down at the human form he had taken—at the torn clothes, at the carefully placed injuries, at the limitations of this mortal vessel. Then he looked back up at Swapn, his eyes widening with genuine awe:
"Senior! You are a mythical creature—can you shape into any being?"
The question was innocent, curious, exactly what a young mortal cultivator would ask. Swapn did not answer directly. He simply continued walking toward the inner hall, his form moving with the grace of something wild and free. Aeren followed, and as he walked, he noticed something troubling. All the animals around them seemed to stare at him. He sensed cosmic energy within them—the unmistakable signature of creation.
They are creations of Swapn or Art, he realized.
But Aeren let this knowledge pass. He did not act on it, did not interfere. He simply kept walking, following Swapn deeper into the palace, allowing the moment to unfold naturally, without his intervention shaping it.
The Inner Hall
When Aeren entered the inner hall, he stopped breathing—a gesture entirely unnecessary, entirely human.
The beauty here was ten times greater than what lay outside. Everywhere he looked, his eyes found something to admire. Lakes shimmered softly, their surfaces like mirrors of liquid starlight. Flowers bloomed in silence—each petal perfect, each color vivid beyond what nature should allow. Plants grew freely, untended yet thriving, as if life itself had learned to be independent.
A few animals moved about the space—a dog, a cat—calm and unafraid, living in absolute peace. They paid him no mind.
At the center of the hall, Art stood painting.
He had taken the form of a young man, handsome in a way that suggested something beyond mortal beauty. The features were sharp, intelligent, bearing a resemblance to Aeren himself that was unmistakable to anyone who knew what to look for. Beside him stood a woman, watching the painting with a gentle smile and quiet awe.
Aeren sensed them both. All of them carried cosmic energy—except the woman. She also had cosmic energy, but it was not original. It had come from this world, from cultivation within its rich, refined atmosphere. She is mortal who has climbed to immortality within these walls.
Aeren stood close to Swapn. Swapn walked toward Art and remained beside him for a brief moment in comfortable silence. Art continued painting—each stroke filled with desperate longing, each movement heavy with meaning, each line a question being asked to the canvas.
Aeren looked at the painting.
It depicted a man.
The man looked identical to who Aeren had once been—before transcendence, before becoming the Endless Truth, before the burden of absoluteness. But it was not him. Art could not paint Aeren. He had tried, had wanted to see that person again—the one who had once existed, who had once taught him everything, who had once defined his entire being. But he could not create him.
Aeren understood this immediately.
He said nothing.
Art stopped painting. He exhaled slowly, as if releasing something precious and irreplaceable. His head lowered. He let the painting remain alive and unfinished, looking at it once more with eyes that contained both gratitude and grief.
The hall stayed silent—filled with beauty, with memory, with the absence of what cannot be recreated.
The Introduction
"Young Master," Swapn broke the silence gently.
All beings turned toward him. Aeren looked at Swapn and Art with a faint smile. The dog and the cat did not move. They remained asleep, allowing the silence to exist undisturbed.
"Yes, Swapn," Art responded. He did not turn around. His eyes remained on the painting, searching for something within it that he could never quite find.
The woman beside Art turned toward Swapn. The moment she heard his voice, she bowed deeply.
"Greetings, Senior."
She straightened herself and then looked at Aeren, confusion flickering across her face before she sensed his cultivation level. Her instincts flared. Cold calculation replaced the warmth.
Swapn spoke calmly, without any sense of the dramatic:
"I bring a young lad here. He is in danger from the creatures outside, so I think it best to let him rest here for a day. He is injured."
Art finally looked at Aeren. His gaze moved slowly from head to toe, taking in every detail—the torn clothes, the wounds, the exhaustion. He saw what Swapn saw.
Art smiled, gentle and approving:
"You did well, Swapn. That is kind of you."
His tone was exactly like the kindness that had once been shown to him. Art had learned well. The woman behind Art continued to watch Aeren with suspicion.
Swapn smiled in return, satisfied. He was happy that his young master approved of his action, happy that his instinct to help had been the right one.
The hall remained quiet. The painting stood unfinished. And Aeren stood where he was, watching a life unfold that he no longer needed to shape.
Aeren bowed slightly and spoke with careful politeness:
"Greetings, Young Master. I am Aarav Dev. I will leave this place after resting for a day. I don't want to impose on your kindness."
His tone was gentle and respectful—exactly what a cultivator should show before those stronger. The woman's gaze sharpened. Suspicion deepened within her as she continued studying Aeren.
Then Art spoke:
"Hmm. You don't need to hurry. Take all the time you need. You may rest here as long as you want."
His words were calm, sincere, genuine. This kindness was something Art had learned from his father—from Aeren himself. And now Art wanted to share it with others, wanted to give what he had been given.
The Doubt
The woman stepped forward. She turned to Art and spoke firmly:
"Young Master, you should think this through. You cannot simply take anyone inside."
Her eyes remained fixed on Aeren, studying him like a predator assessing prey. "He looks suspicious. He appears injured, yet he speaks as if nothing has happened to him. There is something wrong with his presentation."
Her name is Isha. She did not hesitate to voice her concern, and her caution was not entirely unfounded.
Art paused. After hearing Isha's words, he also began to notice it—Aeren looked injured, yet he did not behave like someone in pain. No grimace. No hesitation in movement. No favoring of damaged limbs. Doubt began to form in Art's mind, like clouds gathering before a storm.
Before the doubt could deepen, Aeren spoke again:
"Young Miss, I am injured, but not gravely. The pain is manageable."
He paused, then continued carefully:
"If you believe I am lying, I can leave this place."
He stopped for a moment, then added with perfect calmness:
"But could you at least guide me out of this jungle? The creatures here... they can kill me at any time if they find me."
Aeren explained himself carefully to Art and the others, trying not to appear suspicious—even though he clearly did. He understood something they could not: Art would never harm him. Art was the creator of this world. Every life here is Art's meaning, Art's growth. No mortal danger existed for Art. Even cultivators who reached immortality could not scratch him. Art existed beyond immortal, in a realm where even true immortals would worship him if they knew the truth.
The Challenge
Isha's irritation grew. She stepped forward and spoke sharply:
"You cannot deceive us with words. Leave this place. It is not meant for people like you."
Her eyes had hardened into cold steel. "You will gain nothing here by deceiving us." She stood firmly in that heaven-like land, where cosmic energy flowed like water—perfect for cultivation, perfect for growth. She knows what she is guarding. If someone like Aeren stayed here, he might never want to leave, just as she had found herself unable to leave.
Art turned to look at Isha. Surprise crossed his face. This is the first time he had seen her act this way. He did not interrupt. He wondered quietly if she had sensed something he had missed, if his kindness was misplaced.
But before Art could speak, Aeren did. His voice remained perfectly calm:
"You think I am some kind of scammer?"
Aeren looked at Isha directly, and for just a moment, something flickered in his eyes—something ancient and sad and knowing.
"You are not entirely wrong," he said.
He paused briefly, then continued:
"I can give you my cosmic coins in exchange for staying one day. I do not need charity. Let me rest here for one day, and I will give three cosmic coins."
Aeren finished speaking.
Art froze. Isha froze. Swapn froze. For a long moment, all of them stood completely still—as if they had just heard the most absurd joke ever told, a joke so ridiculous that they could not even react to it properly.
The silence stretched, heavy with confusion, waiting for someone to break it.
In that silence, the unspoken thought filled the space like fog:
Three cosmic coins? Here? In a place where cosmic energy grows from the very trees themselves? Where mortals can ascend to immortality simply by breathing deeply?
It was the offer of someone who understood nothing about the world they stood in.
Or someone who was pretending very, very carefully to understand nothing at all.