The wind whispered softly through the plain, brushing past the blood-soaked bark and the lifeless body that lay beneath the tree. High above, golden mist veiled the heavens. The young man stood still, gazing at the colossal trunk before him. His expression—calm, unreadable.
But his eyes… they shimmered faintly.
He would be lying if he said that all of those years of torture were for naught. There were two things he achieved. Not any kind of superpowers—but useful, nonetheless.
If he focused just right, the world around him shifted. Not in form, but in _feeling_. Every living thing had a light—some dim, some bright—pulsing quietly like a heartbeat only he could see. He had learned to ignore it most of the time. But not now.
Not after the girl.
"A soul no stronger than a mortal's," he murmured, remembering. "Turned into something divine... or something pretending to be."
That was the first thing he had learned from his curse. A soul's brightness revealed only one thing: its presence. Not its strength. Not its power. Just… that it existed.
And hers had been faint.
An artificial angel. A normal human pretending to be divine.
No wonder how limited her powers were. She was just a human girl with wings.
No wonder. That bastard would never leave any of his real children to rot here.
He reached into his shirt and pulled out the two white daggers. They were still intact even after her death.
It seemed that, after the feathers materialized into physical objects, they didn't disappear after their creator's death.
Then he glanced at his palm.
She lied to me.
Not about the feathers. Not about the tree. But about her own knowledge—about the river, about her role. She had doubts. Gaps in what she claimed to know. And she lied to fill them. He had seen it in the twitch of her lip, the hesitation in her tone. It was his second curse. Experience turned skill. He could see deceit now. Not by magic. Just by years. Lives. Pain.
He took one last look at the divine realm. A small grin flashed across his face.
"Fuck, I hate this place," he said. "Luckily I'll never get to see it again..."
"Well, hopefully I won't."
He tightened his grip on the blades.
Then, without a word, he placed one dagger into the tree's bark. It slid in easily—too easily. The tree, though impossibly massive, welcomed the intrusion.
Or perhaps it recognizes what I carry.
He climbed.
---
Hours passed.
Then a day.
The climb was less difficult than expected, physically at least. But the higher he went, the thinner the air felt—not in oxygen, but in weight. The spiritual pressure was thick, heavy, like being submerged underwater. Time began to feel less like something that passed and more like something that watched.
Then he heard a voice.
"You killed someone again, huh?"
It was his voice. But it wasn't him.
He paused the climb.
"Who said that?" he asked.
The voice didn't respond.
After a few moments, it spoke again.
"What did the poor girl do to you? Why did she have to meet her end like that? Pitiful child. She died. And by the hands of such a hateful cretin, at that."
"Shut it, monkey!" the young man shouted, anger in his eyes. "What do you know? I had to do it. Simple."
The once-calm voice exploded in laughter.
"We both know that's not the reason. It's just an excuse, to make you feel better."
After a few seconds, the voice spoke again.
"Admit it, you resentful wench. You felt good while killing her. Her flesh getting torn apart by the dagger in your hands. The life leaving her eyes with every stab you made..."
The voice paused.
"It brought you extreme joy, right?"
The young man's eyes widened. The image of the dying girl flashed across his mind.
Did I really? No, of course not. I just had to do it. I only did what I needed to do...
Right?
After that, the voice never spoke to him again. Leaving him alone.
Who was that piece of shit, anyway? Did the tree play with my mind?
Not knowing the answer, he continued.
On the second night, he paused to rest. Clouds curled gently below him, hiding the world the left behind. Up here, silence had a shape. It filled the space between each breath.
He looked at the dagger in his hand.
Blood still clings to the hilt.
He didn't wipe it away.
---
By dawn of the third day, the mist had thinned.
He had reached it.
A wide platform stretched out before him, carved not by tools, but by nature and divinity intertwined. Above, for the first time, the golden clouds parted. There, floating quietly between heaven and something far stranger, was the river.
He looked at the sky above.
"It looks even more disgusting, even when it isn't hidden behind those hideous clouds."
He lowered his head. His gaze focused entirely on the river.
It wasn't wide—barely the size of two rowboats. But it shimmered like starlight poured into a stream, flowing across a sky with no visible start or end.
He stepped forward.
There were no boats.
Only the sound of water calling gently.
He stood at the edge and stared at his reflection. It flickered. Shimmered. And for a moment, he saw every life flash behind his own eyes—brief, flickering moments of loss and flame and agony and silence.
He smiled.
Not bitterly. Not coldly. Just… tired.
"Fuck. I actually made it."
Then he stepped in.
The river pulled him under without a splash.
And just like that—he was gone.
---
"Hey! What is wrong with you? Stop staring already and let's go back!"
A loud shout resounded in the boy's head.
Who is this monkey yelling at?
The boy didn't pay it any attention.
Wait! Where am I? I was pulled by the river and...
He slowly opened his eyes.
All he could see was the white snow enveloping the landscape. He was standing atop a hill.
He looked down. What he saw made his heart skip a beat.
Shock in his eyes.
Shit... he thought, Did I really fall into a war zone?