Volume 1 — Human Realm Arc
Chapter 1: Birth of Suffering
The night was cold, darker than any shadow that had ever touched the village of Ardevon. The wind
clawed at the roofs, rattling the thin wooden shingles, and seeped through the walls, wrapping the
small cabin in a biting chill. In the dim light of a dying hearth, a child cried for the first time — not for
comfort, but because survival demanded it.
He was born into a world that had no patience for innocence.
The mother's hands trembled as she held him, pressing the fragile bundle against her chest. Her skin
was rough, calloused from years of labor; her eyes, hollow from grief and exhaustion, reflected a life
that had never been kind. "You'll never survive… not here… not ever," she whispered, her voice
breaking under its own weight. It was neither prophecy nor warning — it was truth.
Even in his earliest moments, the child — unnamed, yet already sensing more than he should — felt
the weight of that despair. Hunger clung to him as soon as he opened his mouth; the stench of
smoke and mold filled his lungs. Around him, the cabin groaned in protest against the winter wind,
the walls barely holding the cold at bay.
Outside, the world continued without regard. Snow dusted the frozen ground, trees bent under the
ice, and distant wolves howled for prey that would never escape their hunger. The wind carried the
faint cries of the village — infants wailing, men shouting, women pleading — all blending into a
single, unbroken chorus of survival and loss.
By the end of his first week, the child had already felt cold deeper than any shiver. He had felt hunger
clawing at his belly, the ache of exhaustion pressing against his limbs, and the fragile frustration of
being unseen. In a world that demanded resilience, he learned quickly: survival was the only
language that mattered.
His father existed as a shadow of anger and disappointment, a figure who muttered curses under his
breath and struck whenever his own failures made the boy's existence inconvenient. Sometimes, it
was the boy's fault; sometimes, it was not. But the results were always the same: pain, humiliation,
and the quiet, consuming fear that life would never be safe.
At two years old, he discovered his first companion: a small, trembling kitten, abandoned and
starving beneath a pile of broken crates. The boy fed it with scraps of bread, whispering sounds he
did not yet understand but meant to soothe both himself and the fragile creature. For brief
moments, warmth entered his world.
Then the world took it away.
His father's fury, a storm that no child could weather, found the tiny animal. In one careless, violent
act, life ended before the boy's eyes. The kitten's cries ceased; the fragile warmth vanished. Kiel —
for that was the name he would come to bear, though not yet fully recognized as more than a human
child — did not scream. He did not cry. He could only watch, numbed, as the world delivered its first
true lesson: suffering was inevitable.
Hunger, cold, fear, and loss became his companions. By five, he had learned to move quietly, steal
bread without notice, and observe without being observed. Every creak of the floorboards, every
shift of the wind, every twitch of a neighbor's hand could mean life or death. He memorized them all
Even then, something lingered beneath his awareness. A faint pulse, subtle as a whisper, seemed to
follow him. It did not speak. It did not intervene. Yet, sometimes, when the cabin fell silent, he could
sense it — a presence neither friend nor enemy, watching, patient, eternal.
By seven, Kiel experienced love and its inevitable decay. A village girl, no older than he, offered
friendship — shared a loaf of bread, taught him songs, laughed despite the world's cruelty. For a
short while, warmth returned to his small chest.
Then fever took her. Alone in the night, trembling and fading, she slipped away, and Kiel could do
nothing. He held her hand, whispered words that could not save her, and realized the crushing truth
of mortality: bonds could not protect, and love could not shelter anyone from suffering.
By ten, Kiel had endured theft, betrayal, hunger, sickness, and death. He had witnessed neighbors
killing over scraps, families torn apart by disease, animals crushed beneath the careless weight of
humanity. And through all of it, he observed. He cataloged. Patterns emerged: anger always followed
pride, hunger led to cruelty, hope was fleeting and fragile.
And through it all, the faint presence remained. It was not comforting, not yet. It was patient.
Watching. Waiting. Kiel could feel it occasionally, like the brush of wind that made no sound, or a
pulse beneath his own heartbeat.
By twelve, he was no longer a child untouched by the world. He had learned endurance, patience,
and calculation. His body was thin and scarred, his mind sharp. Every act of cruelty or kindness he
observed was analyzed, stored, memorized. Each loss, each betrayal, each death became another
brick in the structure of his understanding.
He began to ask questions no child should:
Why does the world hurt? Why does suffering follow everything I touch? Why am I alive to witness it
all?
No one answered. No one ever would.
And somewhere deep beneath his awareness, a faint seed took root. A whisper of what would one
day grow into wisdom beyond human comprehension. The world had shown him suffering, and he
had learned to endure it. But he had not yet seen the end.
The candle flickered one last time in the small cabin. Kiel lay awake, staring at the warped ceiling
beams, listening to the wind howl through the cracks. The shadows stretched long and dark across
the floor, creeping closer, as if curious about him.
He did not cry. He did not plead.
All he could do was survive.
And somewhere, unseen, the system — eternal, patient, and silent — marked him. It waited,
knowing that the journey had only begun.
The first chapter of suffering had ended. The story of Kiel Varren, the boy who would endure far
more than any mortal, had only just begun.