"Hehe."
"Hehehehe…"
Maniacal laughter — thin and brittle as shattered jade — echoed through the hidden dungeon. It was not joy but a hollow, desperate sound that made anyone's hair stand on end.
The rhythm of his chant — "Mother would be proud… Mother would be proud…" — intertwined with the jingle of chains binding his small wrists to the cold stone wall.
Jingle—Jangle—Jingle—Jangle.
The metallic chorus wove a haunting rhythm that filled the chamber. Two exiles, hardened men standing guard outside, found themselves slipping into a trance, their rough hands tightening around their spears.
It had been four months since Kraven brought in the eccentric child. Frail, no older than six, the boy had neither fought nor pleaded, not even showing the expected fear. But the moment he woke, he cried out, "Mother! Mother!"
At first, the exiles were irritated by the wails of another orphan. Then, without warning, the boy began to dance.
Clumsy, almost mechanical, his movements carried a frightening conviction, chains restricting motion but not will. When a guard asked why he danced, the child simply smiled.
His remaining right eye — those strange, singularities ringed with teal and gold — met the guard's gaze with unnerving intensity.
"The answer is simple, love. If I dance well," he said, tilting his head unnaturally, "Mother will come back."
The guards exchanged uneasy glances. They had seen broken people before, but this one danced on the edge of madness.
Kraven, a man who saw the world only through profit and despair, came to visit a week after the boy's capture.
He watched in silence as Kurian moved in uneven, jerky motions, the clinking chains forming a pitiful melody that accompanied his unseen dance.
A few words passed between them — brief, almost meaningless on the surface — yet it was enough for Kraven to decide: "he would keep the boy... for now."
The content of their conversation went like this...
"Say, kid," Kraven asked mockingly, "when do you think your mother will come back?"
"In about five years! When I master the dance she taught me!" Kurian answered brightly.
Kraven raised a brow. "And what if I told you she's not coming back?"
But the boy ignored him. "She always comes back. That's how it's always been since she locked me up, love."
"I'm sure she's the one who locked me here too," he added calmly. "This time, she must be angry, that's why she isn't back yet."
"She kept you locked?" Kraven asked, his curiosity piqued.
Kurian nodded, explaining how his mother confined him in the basement, binding his wrists and ankles, covering his eyes and ears.
"I'm certain she was angry because I couldn't dance like her," the boy said. "So now I have to master her dance. Then she'll forgive me."
He spoke softly, dreamily, about her grace, and the five years it would take to match it.
Kraven, intrigued and slightly suspicious, had ordered his men to check Serena's old residence. Sure enough, there were signs of confinement: rope marks on the pillars, torn fabric, faint traces of blood.
Now convinced of the boy's words, Kraven found himself pondering the child's eccentric nature, and what could have driven Serena to confine him in the first place.
He thought back to the scene he'd witnessed: how the boy had kept crying for his mother even after she'd told him to run… and how he'd returned, running toward her instead.
After a moment of consideration, Kraven came to what he believed was the most logical conclusion: "Kurian was born idiot."
Initially, Kraven had intended to keep the child alive until he matured, then kill him and harvest his organs for sale.
But seeing Kurian's obsessive devotion to dance, he changed his mind. He would cultivate the boy's talent, selling him to the nobles of the New Federation for a far greater profit.
After that, Kraven had ordered his guards to keep a close watch on Kurian and his progress, instructing them to report anything unusual beyond the dance — such as if he was secretly plotting something — to Kraven at once.
The exiles standing guard obeyed, though they found the boy's behavior more pitiable than suspicious. They watched him dance endlessly within his chains, eating in rhythm, moving even while chewing, his motions never ceasing.
He slept barely four hours a day before waking again, eyes burning with that same eerie fire — a desperate resolve to master the dance and "meet his mother."
After months, a change caught Kraven's attention: the boy had begun singing, and Kraven, seeing a potential profit, merely smiled.
'Thanks to that client's advice, I'll earn a fortune fostering this talent,' Kraven thought.
On the day Serena died, Kraven nearly sold the boy. The loss of Serena consumed him — not out of genuine affection, but because he could no longer conclude the deal he had made with his client.
His attention then turned to the boy, whom his men had been inspecting. Detecting a faint pulse, they gathered closer to assess him.
"Tch," Kraven clicked his tongue in annoyance. "How was I supposed to sell him to those nobles now? His body's a complete mess."
The client crouched beside him. "Hmm… his eyes are striking," he noted, shaking his head. "Alas, only one remains."
"Argh, should we harvest and sell his organs instead?" Kraven suggested coldly. The client shot him a look of disgust, thinking, 'I knew he was corrupt, but not this much.'
Though hardly virtuous himself, the client retained a shred of morality regarding the young. He offered a proposal: "Keep him alive for a while. See what he can do. If he shows skill, advertise it."
Kraven considered briefly, then nodded curtly. "Fine."
"I'll be taking my leave," the client said, adjusting his coat. Kraven smirked faintly as he saw him off. "Pleasure doing business… Mr. Mortefi."
As their partnership had concluded, Kurian, still unconscious, had been lifted by one of the men and carried to the dungeon where he was being held captive.
But unfortunately, these were not Kraven's memories, but Kurian's.
He was undoubtedly knocked out cold, yet in that moment, having briefly accessed the essence of Brahman itself, Kurian's already immense consciousness expanded into a realm where his very being assumed the sleepless, eternal nature of the Absolute.
Kurian was fully aware of the conversation that had taken place and resolved to act — to act like a fool, patiently waiting while training his body in the most inconspicuous manner, presenting himself as a talented dancer to be nurtured and eventually sold.
From that day onward, Kurian never truly slept. Only his body — capable of exhaustion — rested, while his mind remained awake through eternal nights.
He understood that the best course of action was to borrow time, a luxury he granted himself: five years to master his body and coordination, bringing them into perfect harmony with the skills of his past life.
There was no need to learn new techniques — only to cultivate his body enough to flawlessly execute his existing abilities.
He remained cautious, knowing any display of extraordinary acrobatics could arouse suspicion. To mask his training, he combined dance and calisthenics, using chained cuffs and his own body weight to strengthen every fiber of his being.
Each movement resembled strength training, yet was concealed beneath the skill his mother had insisted he master: Transitioning.
Yes, it was the art of moving seamlessly from one seemingly impossible motion to another — the very foundation of his insane physical regimen.
Accessing Brahman had given Kurian a lifeline — a chance to achieve revenge. Though he could not enter the Fourth World at will, he harnessed its residual effects while spinning endlessly and sleeping awkwardly.
He ate just enough to avoid a calorie deficit, appearing lean rather than muscular.
He prioritized dance over nourishment, occasionally singing of helplessness and separation from his mother, descending further into madness, consumed by love for the mother long gone.
This relentless regimen continued for four years and eight months, until a change occurred: a new cellmate joined him.
In summary, the boy was around Kurian's age, resembling a wolf pup, with light blue eyes, long white hair reaching his knees, and a Tacet Mark running horizontally across his forehead.
At first sight, both felt disgust. The wolf pup's lip curled in immediate distaste: "Who the hell is this creep?"
Kurian, head cocked unnaturally, grime streaked on his face, thought the same: "Who the hell is this creep?"
However, as they cuffed the silver-haired boy, Kurian, sensing that this boy might be useful, asked casually, "Are you also being held captive by your mother for being disobedient, love?"
The silver-haired boy shivered all over, visibly twitching as he looked at the guard, eyes wide with panic: "Please don't leave me here with this creep."
Even the guards were taken aback, they knew how vicious this wolf pup could be, yet to see him visibly shudder was a spectacle in itself.
"Oh, I think you two will get along just fine. And don't worry, he calls everyone 'love,'" the guards laughed, finding the situation thoroughly amusing.
As the wolf pup turned to face the eccentric dancer, Kurian had already closed the distance. In that instant, the vicious pup felt genuine fear for the first time, wondering, 'When did he—?'
Even with the cuffs on, Kurian made no sound, which unnerved the young pup. Slowly, he raised his hand, fingers barely grazing the pup's chin, and asked, "What's your name, love?"
The pup hissed and recoiled. "Get the hell away from me, you freak!"
That was the initial encounter between the two. Days went on, with Kurian persistently asking for his name, while the wolf pup remained too proud to respond.
It was only after observing Kurian for a long time — seeing him pour intense focus into mastering his dance — that the wolf pup began training his own body, imagining a sword in his hands, muttering during practice: "Calcharo."
"What was that, love?" Kurian asked. The silver-haired boy looked up and replied, "My name… Calcharo."
"Kurian," Kurian replied with his own name, as Calcharo said, "I know that, you idiot."
"Eh, since when?" Kurian paused, giving a pondering look.
"You've been saying your name while asking me to reveal mine for days now," Calcharo replied.
"You always go like, 'My name is Kurian, what's yours love?'" Calcharo added, his tone playful and nagging — not the tone which he normally responded in.
Realizing the break in his usual demeanor, he laughed, amused rather than frustrated.
Kurian observed him, thinking, 'Hmm, the anger in his heart has softened.'
When Kurian first saw Calcharo, he perceived a ball of fire within him — immense rage, visible to any trained eye. Kurian could have ignored it, but seeing such fury, mirroring a fraction of his own, he decided to help.
Acting like a fool, he sang harmonious melodies and danced within the cage, bringing lightness to the vicious pup's life.
It was a strange bond between two souls burning with rage, each finding admiration in the other. Calcharo respected Kurian's discipline; Kurian, Calcharo's boldness.
If only they had met under better circumstances, perhaps they could have truly conversed without watchful eyes hovering like crows over a carcass.
"Why do you call everyone 'love'?" Calcharo asked, lying flat on the ground, utterly exhausted after three weeks without rest.
"My mother always called me that," Kurian replied with a smile, dancing effortlessly. "So I thought I'd call others the same."
Calcharo watched him, pity softening his gaze. "You must have loved her deeply. It must be hard not having her around."
Kurian paused mid-movement, meeting Calcharo's eyes.
Calcharo panicked. Oh shit, I spoke too much. But Kurian wasn't angry. "Yes… but no worries. I'll meet her tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Calcharo frowned, jolting upright, closing the distance in a tense movement.
"Yes," Kurian nodded, beginning to explain what he believed was happening.
Calcharo's expression darkened, and unable to contain himself, he grabbed Kurian's face. "Are you dumb?"
"Who are you calling dumb?" Kurian replied, frowning.
"You must run from here," Calcharo insisted, clenching his teeth.
"No," Kurian denied.
"I'll help you if you run!" Calcharo pressed.
Kurian shook his head. "You're just jealous I'll meet my mother soon."
Calcharo wanted to squash Kurian's face in that instant, but he had no strength left; drowsiness overwhelmed him, his consciousness fading as he thought, 'Tch, I shouldn't have pushed that far.'
His body slumped, and Kurian caught him, gently laying him down. The last thing he heard was, "Thank you."
After setting him down, Kurian decided, 'I too, must rest, for tomorrow I will dance the most dangerous dance of my life.'
The next day, Calcharo's eyes snapped open, scanning for Kurian. "Kurian?"
"What's wrong?" Kurian replied, just waking. Relief flooded Calcharo, but a few exiles soon told Kurian, "Your mother is waiting in the boss's chamber."
"Yay!" Kurian said, seeming very happy.
Calcharo shouted, "Don't listen to them!"
But knowing Kurian was an idiot, the exiles teased him. "For making you wait this long, she said she'll give you anything. A hug, money, or freedom?"
Calcharo's blood boiled. Kurian simply said, "I want bells."
"Huh?" Calcharo muttered, confused.
The exiles were puzzled until Kurian explained, "The small bells dancers wear on their ankles and wrists. These cuffs don't make a pretty noise."
"Someone get this boy the bell," one exile said.
Soon, another returned with four small bells. Kurian donned them — two on wrists, two on ankles — and moved gracefully, twirling. "Can you hear this pretty noise?"
The exiles nodded. "Indeed. Now let's get you to your mother."
As they reached the door, Calcharo tensed. 'As soon as they open that, I will—'
"No need," Kurian interrupted.
"What?" an exile asked.
Kurian twirled in one seamless motion, his kick crashing into the rusted iron door. The hinges howled and the door flew open, startling every soul present. "What the—?"
Shouts erupted as Kurian leapt toward an exile, grabbed the back of his head, and drove a knee into his face, crushing his mask and his skull.
Then, seizing the sword on the man's waist, he struck with precision; the only sound left as bodies fell was the haunting chime of crimson-soaked bells.
"You—" Calcharo exclaimed, astonished.
Kurian kicked up a fallen sword and flicked it to Calcharo. "Your martial arts are terrible, but it should be enough to escape. Now… leave."
To be continued...