Aeren looked at the cat and then at Isha. He could tell immediately—the fear inside her had vanished. The cat leapt lightly onto her shoulder, placing itself between her and Aeren, as if guarding her. Aeren did not smile this time. He simply watched.
The cat's eyes narrowed, suspicion sharp in its gaze, as though Aeren had crossed an invisible line. Then it spoke.
"Why are you bullying her?"
Aeren paused. Genuine surprise flickered across his face. He had sensed the cat was not ordinary, but he had not expected such direct confrontation. A small smile appeared on his lips.
"You misunderstand me," he said gently. "I only reminded her of what she truly follows. She speaks of Heaven while serving Hell. There is a contradiction." He looked at the cat. "I'm surprised to meet another mythical creature here."
The cat tilted its head slightly, curious but still guarded.
"That's not true," Isha replied sharply, her confidence returning. "I worship both Heaven and Hell. They are not opposites—they are two sides of the same truth."
Aeren's smile faltered. He had not expected that answer. It contradicted everything the world had shown him—the binary worship, the forced choice between light and darkness. He looked at Isha again, searching for deception in her eyes.
"How is that possible?" he whispered, more to himself than to her. "In this world, beings choose one or the other. I've seen the division."
"Then you haven't seen deep enough," Isha said coldly. "Not everything in this world follows the rules you think exist."
The cat watched the exchange carefully, ears twitching. This stranger knew far too much—and yet understood far too little.
The Interrogation
"Who are you?" Isha demanded, stepping forward. "Are you a demon too?"
Aeren glanced at the sky, considering the question. "A demon, huh," he said casually. "Maybe. Maybe not. But one thing is certain—I don't serve anything here."
Isha's expression darkened immediately. Her fists clenched. "Then how did you know I'm a Demon Saintess? How did you recognize me on sight?"
The urge to kill him surged within her. She had already scanned the area, preparing to strike. Only the cat's presence stopped her. She stood trembling, furious, unable to understand how someone so weak-looking could make her feel so exposed.
Aeren took a step forward, his demeanor shifting. He looked directly into her eyes and smiled—but this time, his expression was different. More confident. More dangerous.
"You're quite famous," he said. "I've seen your posters everywhere. Temples speak your name like a prayer." He moved closer. "A Demon Saintess of your caliber doesn't go unnoticed."
But as he spoke, something shifted in his voice. He sounded different. More aware. More present. His movements became fluid, calculated. The weak cultivator act was cracking.
The cat's fur stood on end.
Aeren raised his hand toward Isha's cheek—
Smack.
The cat struck his hand away in an instant. His hand tore apart on impact, dissolving like mist.
For a moment, Aeren felt something he had not felt in eons. True pain. Not the philosophical understanding of suffering, but the raw, burning sensation of flesh unmade. His borrowed human form screamed in agony, and the sensation was so foreign, so vivid, that he could not help but react with genuine terror.
"AHHHHH—!" Aeren screamed, falling backward, clutching his arm. He stared at the cat in shock, genuine panic crossing his face. "What did you do?! What are you?!"
The pain was white-hot and spreading. It was as if the cat's strike had rewoven the very fabric of his existence in this form, reminding him that even a god wearing human skin could be hurt. Even Aeren could bleed.
He stumbled away, his eyes wide with something he had not felt in eons: fear. True, visceral fear. The kind that made his borrowed human form shake uncontrollably. He had forgotten this sensation. He had transcended it so completely that feeling it again was almost alien.
The cat advanced slowly toward him, step by step, her eyes glowing faintly with an ancient power. Aeren backed away, unable to do anything but watch. The cat's gaze was patient, unhurried—the look of something that had all the time in the world and did not fear a single being in this realm.
Then the cat placed a single paw against his arm.
Warmth flowed instantly. The torn flesh knitted itself back together. The pain vanished as if it had never existed. His hand was whole again—perfectly restored, as if the strike had been a dream.
"Sorry about that," the cat said, her voice surprisingly gentle. "I thought you were trying something harmful." She paused, studying him with eyes that contained far more awareness than any creature should possess. "Consider this a lesson. Next time, I won't help you."
The cat smiled—not kindly, but with a certain satisfaction. She had made her point crystal clear. Then she turned and walked away, her form dissolving into the air itself, leaving behind only the faint shimmer of where she had stood.
Aeren remained frozen, staring at the spot where she had vanished. His hand trembled despite being fully healed. The memory of pain lingered in his consciousness like an echo, a reminder of vulnerability he thought he had left behind forever.
Isha watched from behind, and despite herself, satisfaction rose within her. She folded her arms, a small smile forming on her lips. Whoever this stranger was, the cat had put him in his place. And for some reason, watching him falter filled her with a quiet sense of justice.
The Acceptance
Aeren looked at Isha, and for a moment, something flickered in his eyes. Interest. Curiosity. The spark of something that had been dormant for far too long. It was the feeling of being surprised, of encountering something beyond his understanding—and for an instant, he was almost... alive.
But then it was gone.
"What's wrong, my dear Aarav?" Isha said softly, mockery dripping from her voice. She stepped closer and placed her hand against his cheek. "Where is that confidence now?"
Aeren shivered violently. She was testing him, seeing how far she could push. And he understood exactly what she was implying—demons could consume hearts, could feed on the life force of others, could make slaves of the weak through their own desperation.
"Don't eat my heart, Saintess," he said shakily. "I've always admired you. That's why I recognized you. You're beautiful."
His voice trembled convincingly. It was an act—yet the reaction it produced was real. Isha's eyes widened slightly. A faint flush appeared on her cheeks. For just a moment, the ice in her expression melted.
"Please," Aeren added quietly. "I'll leave this place if you wish. I don't want to cause trouble."
Isha finally exhaled. The suspicion faded from her expression. Whatever mystery she had sensed was gone—now he looked like any other being of this world. Weak. Harmless. Another cultivator seeking refuge in a place beyond the reach of his enemies.
She stepped past him.
"Follow me," she said flatly. "The Master has given you permission to stay. You can remain for a while, and leave whenever you wish." She paused at the doorway. "Respect everyone here. Or you know what happens."
Isha led the way through winding corridors. Aeren followed, moving stiffly, still processing what had happened. His hand continued to ache subtly—a phantom pain from a wound that no longer existed. When they reached a room, Isha gestured inside. The space was filled with dense cosmic energy—refined, pure, and overwhelming to any normal being.
To Aeren, it felt like nothing at all.
"Don't touch anything here," Isha said sharply. "Everything in this room has consciousness. The furniture, the walls, even the air itself. They are creations, and they are aware. Touch them the wrong way, and they will react." She shivered slightly as she spoke, as if the items were watching her. "The Master doesn't appreciate carelessness."
Aeren observed the room with detached interest. He could sense the realm within each object—perfect Universe Awareness, achieved through Art's creation. Everything here was conscious. Everything was alive. The bed held a gentle awareness. The chair observed visitors with neutral patience. Even the books on the shelf contained the faint pulse of consciousness, waiting to be read, to be understood.
He said nothing.
Isha produced clothes from the air itself. They shimmered with elemental light—refined, expensive, clearly prepared for an honored guest. "Change into these. Freshen yourself. Don't lose yourself in the room." She said it as a warning, though what she meant by "lose yourself" remained unclear. Perhaps she meant one could become so absorbed in the room's atmosphere that time would pass strangely. Perhaps she meant something else entirely.
"Yes, Saintess. Thank you," Aeren replied, his smile returning. "You really are kind."
Isha almost smiled back, but caught herself. "Well, I've told you everything. Remember what I said." She turned and walked toward the door, her hand raised in a casual wave. "Take care of yourself. And don't do anything foolish."
Then she was gone.
The Rest
Aeren moved toward the bed and sat down slowly. Around him, the room remained silent. No presence questioned his existence. All beings had sensed the Master's approval, and so they left him alone.
He sat there for a long moment, his hand opening and closing. Testing it. The cat's lesson had been effective. It had shattered something in him—the illusion of invulnerability, the comfort of absolute transcendence. For a moment, he had felt small again.
He had not slept in eons. Millennia had passed without the need for rest. His consciousness remained eternally awake, eternally aware, always observing, never resting. But this human form—this small fragment of himself that he had placed in this borrowed body—it was beginning to want things it should not want.
It wanted rest.
It wanted to dream.
Aeren lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. For a moment, he wondered what would happen if he truly dreamed. Would his subconscious reveal something even he did not know? Would the dreams be memories of when he was human, or would they be visions of what he had become?
Sleep came easily.
When he opened them again, hours had passed. Darkness had settled outside the window—but it was not the gentle darkness of night. It was something thicker. Something alive.
He rose and stepped into the corridor.
The shadow of Hell stretched across the realm now, deep and suffocating. Fear moved through it like a living thing, seeping into the consciousness of every being. Minds wavered. Psyches trembled. Even this sacred place, protected by Art's creation, shivered under the weight of that darkness.
In a distant chamber, a young god fell to his knees, weeping without understanding why. Fear had consumed him so completely that he could no longer think. In another corner, a demon laughed—a manic, desperate sound—as she chanted prayers to the shadow, trying to appease it through worship.
Aeren walked as a silent witness. He observed the shadow. He observed the fear. He observed the worship that rose instinctively from every being who felt that darkness approaching. They bowed without choice. They prayed without meaning. They served the very thing that would eventually consume them all.
He did not feel it. He did not fear it. He simply watched.
And as he walked through the trembling world, Aeren understood something that the beings here could never comprehend:
He was not beneath the Heaven and Hell they feared.
He was between them.
And perhaps, one day, he would teach them the difference.
But not today.
Today, he would simply observe.