The boy made his choice. He cast aside the mantle of crown prince, the gilded halls, the weight of duty, and the voices of those who believed in him. One by one, he let them go—his pregnant wife, his grieving mother, his proud father, the countless faces that had pinned their hopes upon his name. All were left behind as he walked into the vast unknown, barefoot and alone.
He paused once, his gaze falling upon the silent figure before him. The figure, cloaked in shadow and light, met his eyes with an ageless calm, then simply raised its wing , gesturing for him to continue on his path. Without a word, Vern obeyed.
Years passed in solitude. He sat beneath trees, beside rivers, atop lonely peaks, his frame wasting away until he was little more than skin stretched over bone. Yet in his sunken face, his eyes grew sharper, clearer, as though suffering itself had carved away every shadow of doubt. Hunger gnawed at him like a beast, storms lashed against his frail body, the heat of summer blistered his skin and the frost of winter froze his breath—yet still, he endured.
Piece by piece, the illusions of the world unraveled before him. The glitter of wealth, the sweetness of power, the warmth of attachment—he saw them all dissolve like mist in the morning sun. His lips, once trembling with the ache of want, curved into a faint, tranquil smile. His breathing slowed, his heart grew steady, and the turmoil of his thoughts sank into stillness.
At last, in the silence of his meditation, something stirred. It was not a sound, nor a vision, but a clarity so profound it burned brighter than any flame. His eyes, closed for so long, flickered open—not with the hunger of a man, but with the calm depth of an ocean. He had pierced through the veil of suffering and desire.
And there, in that boundless silence, his face softened into serenity. A tear slipped down his hollow cheek—not of sorrow, but of release. In that moment, his smile was unshakable, radiant, as if he had found it—enlightenment.
Vern then glanced at himself, the faintest smile touching his lips, and continued.
"He left on a pilgrimage," he said softly, "and along his journey he began to speak. His words were not the commands of a prince, nor the decrees of a ruler—they were truths drawn from silence. Many who heard him felt something stir within their hearts. They walked beside him, and in time became his disciples. Soon, people began to call him the incarnation of God."
Vern's smile lingered, serene and unbroken, as his gaze remained steady. "Do you know what his teachings were?" he asked, his voice flowing as calmly as still water.
The figure tilted its head, eyes narrowing with curiosity. "No," it admitted, the word carrying both humility and intrigue. "I do not know."
With a smile, Vern went on.
"The first thing he taught," he said, "was to refrain from killing. No matter the reason, no matter the circumstance—do not take a life."
He paused, then a low chuckle slipped from his lips.
"Heh… but don't you think it's idiotic? A man who has never known hunger, never felt his stomach twist in emptiness, telling others not to kill. Did he not see the beggar trembling on the roadside, hand outstretched for a morsel of food? Did he not see the aftermath of war—the children wasting away because the fields were burned, the parents forced to steal or slaughter just to survive?"
Vern's eyes narrowed, though his smile remained. "Or perhaps he did see. Perhaps he thought that by preaching such things, people would follow his words without question, bound by the illusion of righteousness."
The figure remained utterly silent, not even a breath or gasp escaping, as though these words were things he had already known yet chosen never to speak aloud.
Vern's smile lingered, calm yet edged with something sharper. "The second thing he preached," he continued, "was never to lie—no matter the situation." He tilted his head slightly, his gaze fixed, and a faint, almost playful smirk pulled at his lips. "But don't you find it naive? A man who never tasted absolute despair, never felt the cold hand of desperation closing around his throat… speaking as though truth alone could sustain the starving?"
His smile widened, but his eyes told a different story—narrowed, gleaming, mocking. "Isn't it laughable? Did he not see the merchant struggling to earn enough to keep his family alive? Did he simply assume every wealthy man was born into fortune, gilded and secure? Perhaps he thought so. But what of those who clawed their way up from the mud, who bent truth, twisted words, spun lies—just to survive one more day?"
Vern leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose, as if the weight of his own thoughts amused him. His voice softened, but his expression remained sharp, eyes reflecting both irony and disdain. "Tell me—who among us has not used lies as a shield, as a blade, as a bridge to survival? Even those who call themselves righteous, even those who endured greater hardships than he ever did, still lied when cornered. And if even they could not live without falsehood, then what did his preaching truly mean?"
His smile remained—serene, almost gentle—but the calmness in his face carried a hidden storm, a silent mockery that cut deeper than anger ever could.
"The third thing he preached," Vern said, his voice steady at first, "was that life is nothing but suffering. And to escape it, we must follow a path that leads to liberation."
For a moment, silence hung between them—until Vern suddenly burst out laughing. "Hehehehe!" His shoulders shook, his hand rising to clutch his head as if the very thought pained him in amusement. His smile twisted wider, his eyes glinting with scorn as he exhaled in ragged laughter.
"Don't you find it absolutely hilarious?" he said at last, still smirking, though his tone now carried a darker edge. "A boy who never tasted hunger, never felt the bite of cold, never clawed through mud for survival—sitting in his golden cage, saying life is nothing but suffering? And worse—saying we must escape it?"
His expression shifted—his laughter faded into a thin, sharp smile. His brows lowered, his eyes narrowing with quiet fire. "How naive. Did he think life would be better if there were no hardships? No suffering? No struggles to endure? No. Without them, life would be empty, meaningless, dull. It is suffering that forges us, hardships that shape us into who we are. Strip them away, and what remains?"
Vern's voice deepened, his tone firm, carrying the weight of unshakable conviction. "Did he not see the soldier—broken, bloodied, scarred by the battlefield? And yet that soldier, in his shattered body, carried hope. Hope that by bleeding he had saved his land. Hope that his wife and children would never need to shed blood as he had. Hope that someone in the royal palace—someone living in comfort—would never bear the price he had already paid."
His hand slowly fell from his head, and he sat back, his smile curving into one of cold serenity. His eyes, however, burned as they fixed upon the silent figure. "Did he forget? Behind his so-called peace, behind the luxury that allowed him to spin such lofty ideals, were the sacrifices of countless men and women. Their suffering sustained his freedom. Their pain purchased his enlightenment. And yet he dared call life nothing but suffering."
Vern let out a slow, sharp breath, almost a scoff, then his smile softened again—calm, gentle, but cutting like a blade wrapped in silk.
"Don't you find it naive? Don't you find it almost amusing—how some fools followed him blindly, declaring him to be the incarnation of a god? A god who preached an entirely different path, while he himself endured endless suffering and hardship?" Vern's voice carried both scorn and disbelief, his words sharp as if cutting through the silence that wrapped around them.
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing as though trying to pierce the darkness that veiled the figure. "I know you understand who I'm talking about. The man who suffered more than anyone else, yet still believed, still clung to what he thought was righteous. Not the empty naïveté of a boy who spoke of enlightenment, but the grit of one who lived and bled for his truth."
Vern's tone deepened, his words trembling with the weight of conviction. "And yet… don't you think it's foolish? Foolish that they claim he was the incarnation of that great being? That they compare him to the one who fought, who sacrificed, who burned until even his bones seemed to melt away?"
His fists tightened at his sides, his breath heavy, as though the very thought was too bitter to swallow. "Tell me—" his voice dropped to a near-whisper, though the edge of accusation never faded—"don't you see the insult in their blind devotion?"
The figure remained silent. Its vast wings did not stir, its form cloaked in shadows that seemed to drink in Vern's words. Only its eyes glimmered faintly in the dark, unblinking, as though weighed down by memories too heavy to voice.
"If my guess is correct, you should be well aware who I am talking about, don't you think?"
The figure stayed silent. Its massive frame loomed in the gloom, cloaked in an endless shroud of darkness that seemed to ripple and breathe with a life of its own. The air grew heavier around it, as if even the silence carried weight.
Its wings shifted faintly, a slow, deliberate motion, as though the memories Vern's words stirred had pressed down upon it. The shadows trailing from its feathers curled and writhed, stretching outward like tendrils before sinking back into its body.
Its golden eyes dimmed for a fleeting heartbeat, then flared again—two burning embers in the void. The gaze was steady, yet beneath it lingered something unspoken, the faintest glimmer of grief buried under endless years.
No sound came from its beak. Not even the scrape of claws against the ground. And yet, in that silence, one could almost feel the echo of remembrance—the weight of a certain man etched deep within its soul, a memory too raw to be voiced aloud.
The figure did not answer. It simply stood, wrapped in darkness, wings half-folded, as though carrying the burden of a past it would never let slip.