Face to face, they stood unmoving.
A boy, trapped in a body that refused to age.
A figure that bore neither hope nor despair.
Their eyes met.
Something passed between them — silent, raw.
It wasn't a promise.
Nor a silent oath.
Just recognition, stripped of meaning or need.
Asveri didn't know what he saw.
A god?
A demon?
A traveler at the end of his road?
No.
None of that.
What stood before him was empty.
Not broken. Not shattered.
Simply hollow.
Like a book whose pages had long been read and torn out.
Only the cover remained.
And yet, that was enough.
Asveri saw himself reflected in that emptiness.
He did not look away.
He did not step back.
He merely stood, as unmoving as the silent world around them.
The stillness thickened.
Villagers had pulled away, caught between fear and instinct.
No one dared disturb the moment.
No one — except the one who had lost too much to remain silent.
A voice broke the quiet.
— "Monster… impostor… destroyer…"
The man emerged from the crowd.
His face wasn't marked by age, but by collapse.
The collapse of ideals.
Of belief.
Of a future that never came.
He had seen utopia.
He had believed in it.
He had built upon its ashes.
And Anor'ven had taken it away — simply by walking on.
His hands trembled, yet they clutched the rusted pitchfork tightly.
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate.
— "Not again… you won't save nothing this time…"
His voice cracked, carrying grief rather than fury.
Then, he struck.
The pitchfork pierced through Anor'ven's chest effortlessly.
The wood cracked from the force.
The villagers gasped, breath caught in their throats.
Anor'ven did not move.
He merely looked down at the weapon lodged in his body.
No emotion.
No surprise.
The pain, yes — it was real.
But it was meaningless.
He did not retaliate.
Not out of mercy.
Not out of weakness.
But because it simply would have meant nothing.
With slow, measured fingers, he grasped the shaft of the weapon.
And pulled.
The pitchfork slid out with a sound too hollow to matter.
Blood flowed — dark and thick — then stopped.
The wound sealed itself, quiet and patient.
Anor'ven glanced at the red stains on his fingers.
He wiped them on his sleeve, like brushing away dust.
The man who struck him had fallen to his knees.
His weapon slipped from numb hands.
His eyes, wide with panic, were already distant.
He had attacked.
He had tried.
And it had accomplished nothing.
Around him, the villagers stood frozen.
No one spoke.
No one dared.
All eyes were on Anor'ven.
He did not speak.
He did not judge.
He looked upon the man as one might look at a leaf caught on the wind.
No hatred.
No forgiveness.
No reaction.
The world held still.
Asveri watched, and understood.
He understood that Anor'ven was not invincible.
He was something far colder.
He was untouchable.
Not because weapons could not hurt him.
But because pain itself meant nothing anymore.
He simply endured.
And Asveri recognized that feeling.
He, too, knew the weight of pain that no longer mattered.
He, too, knew what it meant to exist without purpose or attachment.
Anor'ven turned.
Without hurry.
Without farewell.
He resumed walking, leaving the stunned village behind.
The villagers parted for him, whispering prayers to gods that no longer answered.
Asveri stood still.
He could remain, if he chose.
No one would stop him.
But something had already shifted deep inside.
To stay here — surrounded by stagnant fear and hollow routines — seemed even more absurd.
He stepped forward.
Not rushed.
Not hesitant.
Simply walking.
No one stopped him.
They only watched, their expressions a mix of confusion and resignation.
Asveri followed the figure ahead.
He did not know where they were going.
He didn't care.
He walked.
And that was enough.
He did not seek to understand Anor'ven.
He did not want answers.
But he knew one thing:
Walking after him felt less absurd than staying behind.
Together, they left the village.
The wind swept through the empty streets, erasing the last whispers.
Asveri glanced back only once.
No sorrow.
No nostalgia.
Only the quiet understanding that all of it belonged to yesterday.
Ahead, Anor'ven walked on.
Shoulders straight.
Steps steady.
He did not wait.
He did not lead.
He simply moved forward.
Asveri adjusted his pace to follow.
Close enough to remain in his shadow.
No words passed between them.
No glances were exchanged.
Only dust and silence.
Two figures heading the same way.
"Nothing begins. Nothing ends. What exists is merely an echo, repeating with no witness. But this time, there were two who heard it."