The crackling of the small, smokeless fire cast dancing shadows across the faces of Ryel and Miel. They sat opposite each other, the remnants of Ryel's latest forest kill – a plump, albeit tasteless, rabbit – skewered over the flames.
Ryel, leaning back against a moss-covered boulder, gestured for Miel to begin.
"Alright, Miel," Ryel said, his voice calm, yet firm. "Start from the beginning. Everything you remember." He needed to understand the scope of the boy's abilities, the nature of his existence, and the cult that had offered him up.
Miel, still with that same bewildered innocence in his amethyst eyes, seemed to gather his thoughts, an almost childlike struggle to piece together a fragmented past. "I… I remember being… born, I think. Or perhaps, being made. It's… hazy. Not like a normal birth, I don't think. It was a place of soft light, and many people in white robes." His voice was soft, almost melodic, carrying a gentle resonance.
"They seemed very excited."
Miel's Past
Flashback: Centuries Ago
Miel's earliest 'memories' were not of infancy, but of a persistent, almost clinical observation. He was always 'special.' From his earliest conscious moments, the white-robed figures, the very same cultists of the Crimson Veil Conclave he later encountered, had identified within him a staggeringly potent energy signature, an inherent resonance with the Aetherweave far beyond anything they had ever encountered.
He was, to them, not a child, but a living, breathing, endlessly regenerating battery of raw magical power.
His 'childhood' was a meticulously controlled existence within the hidden cloisters of the Conclave. His days were rigidly structured, devoid of the spontaneous joy or reckless abandon of normal youth. He was isolated, his interactions limited solely to a rotating cadre of 'caretakers' – stern, scholarly figures who treated him less like a person and more like a delicate, invaluable experiment. They meticulously documented every fluctuation of his energy, every subtle change in his physical state.
"The subject's regenerative capabilities continue to defy our understanding," one caretaker's voice echoed in his memory, overheard during a check-up. "At the precise age of twelve solar cycles, cellular decay seems to cease entirely. His physical form… stabilizes. An anomaly, even by the standards of 'gifted' individuals."
Indeed, Miel found himself perpetually at the physical age of twelve. Day after day, year after year, his body remained unchanged. He watched caretakers age, their faces wrinkling, their steps slowing.
He saw them replaced by younger, equally stern individuals. He experienced the bizarre temporal displacement of celebrating his twelfth 'birthday' for the hundredth time, then the two hundredth, then the nine hundredth. He lived through centuries, trapped in an eternal adolescence.
"He is a unique nexus of Aetherweave," another voice, this one softer, more sympathetic, resonated from his distant past. This was Elara, a younger caretaker with kind eyes, distinct from the others in her gentle demeanor. "His essence cycles, perpetually renewing, perpetually purifying. It's as if his body is constantly dissolving and reknitting itself at a fundamental level." This, Ryel now understood, was the basis of Miel's instantaneous reconstruction ability. His very being was a continuous process of self-creation.
The Conclave, in their twisted wisdom, recognized the dangers of a being with such profound, unchanging longevity and power. Their theory, which Ryel now deduced from Miel's fragmented recollections, was simple yet chilling: to control him, they must control his mind. By limiting his experiences, by isolating him from genuine human connection, by denying him exposure to complex emotions and the harsh realities of the world, they could keep his mind immature, perpetually fixed at the pliable, easily manipulated stage of a twelve-year-old.
"A child's mind is a blank slate," a deep, resonant voice, likely a high-ranking Elder of the Conclave, declared in Miel's memory. "Easily imprinted, easily guided. He will know only what we permit him to know. He will understand only what we deem necessary. He will be our eternally compliant conduit."
And so, Miel was taught only rudimentary concepts: basic language, simple logical puzzles, the names of his 'caretakers,' and, crucially, an instinctual understanding of physical danger. They drilled into him what to avoid, what constituted a 'threat' to his physical being, without ever explaining why these things were dangerous, or how they related to the wider world. He witnessed each of his caretakers die – of old age, of illness, of accidents – but he never truly grasped the concept of mortality. It was simply… an event that happened to others.
He observed, he existed, but he did not truly understand the cycle of life and death, the weight of grief, or the meaning of loss. His mind, isolated and carefully cultivated, remained in a perpetual state of innocent, albeit ancient, youth.
Then, centuries into his existence, a profound crisis gripped the Crimson Veil Conclave. Their ritual sites were failing, their Aetherweave reserves dwindling. The ancient texts spoke of a time when the Supreme Spirit Dragon, their worshipped deity, grew angry due to insufficient or impure offerings. The Conclave, desperate and fearing the Dragon's wrath, came to a grim conclusion: a sacrifice of unprecedented potency was required. And Miel, the 'gifted' perpetual child, with his immense, stable energy signature, was their perfect solution. He was the purest, most concentrated source of Aetherweave they possessed.
Miel recalled a specific, poignant memory: "There was one… she was different. Elara. She said it wasn't right. She tried to… take me away." He remembered hushed arguments, frantic movements, the worried, determined set of Elara's face.
"She said we had to escape. She said they were going to… give me away."
He remembered a chaotic night, whispers in the dark, the feel of Elara's hand, small and warm, gripping his. She had tried to lead him through a secret passage, her every movement radiating a desperate hope. But they were caught. The cold, unyielding faces of the Elders. The force of their grip.
"Traitors are dealt with swiftly," the Elder's voice, cold and devoid of mercy, resonated in Miel's memory. Miel was led away, his mind still too immature to fully grasp the grim implications. He saw Elara, struggling, calling out to him, her eyes filled with a desperate plea he couldn't understand. The next day, she was gone.
He later overheard hushed whispers of her 'execution,' but the word held no true meaning for him. It was just another event, another caretaker disappearing from his small, controlled world. They then moved him into the ornate, sealed carriage, preparing him for the ritual. And that was when Ryel entered his life.
Ryel listened, utterly enthralled, a mix of genuine surprise and a peculiar sense of camaraderie washing over him. His eyebrows practically disappeared into his black hair. "Really? You're that old?" He whistled softly. "You're more like a senior citizen to me, chronologically speaking. But your mind is still… twelve." A grin, a rare sight on Ryel's usually calculating face, spread across his features. It was a strange kind of humor, rooted in the bizarre absurdity of their combined circumstances.
"Alright, Miel. Consider me your new, very reluctant, life coach. We're going to teach that ancient brain of yours a few things about the real world."
Miel simply gazed at Ryel, his amethyst eyes wide and trusting, as if Ryel had just offered him the solution to the universe's most complex riddle. The casual acceptance of his ancient age and his new 'role' was unsettlingly pure.
"Alright, that's enough for tonight," Ryel declared, stifling a yawn. He needed to process this new information, to integrate Miel's unique nature into his evolving plans. "Let's get some sleep." He pointed to his side of the makeshift sleeping area, a carefully prepared bed of soft moss and leaves.
Later, as Ryel drifted into a light, meditative sleep, he felt a soft shift beside him. Miel, with the silent grace that seemed to be an inherent part of his nature, had snuck over.
Ryel felt a small, warm body press against his side, then two slender arms wrapped around him, holding him tightly, almost protectively.
Ryel, half-asleep, a faint sigh escaping his lips, thought, Even though he's technically a guy, and centuries old, he sort of looks like a girl with that delicate face and long hair. And he definitely cuddles like a lost puppy. The unexpected intimacy, the raw, innocent need for connection from the perpetually isolated Miel, was… disarming.
It was another variable he hadn't accounted for, a soft emotional component in his otherwise cold, calculated world. "Well, tomorrow we head forward, I guess". With a very old, very powerful, very clingy new companion.
The next morning dawned with a crisp, clear sky, the air filled with the invigorating scent of pine and damp earth. Ryel and Miel packed their meager belongings – mostly Ryel's survival gear and a few small items Miel had instinctively kept from his former 'life.'
As they walked back towards the shimmering, distant outline of the city, Ryel felt a quiet sense of satisfaction, a subtle hum of progress. Seven years had honed him, transforming him from a bewildered victim into a seasoned survivor. Now, he had grown, not just in stature, but in capability. He was no longer alone; he had a companion. He had mastered the volatile, immense power of the Absolute Abyss, easily locking it with his five internal seals, each capable of being opened at will, unleashing controlled bursts of its reality-warping essence. And his mundane skill, Diov, had improved exponentially, his reflexes sharper, his strength greater, his agility unparalleled.
This was it. The next step. His plan, conceived in solitude and refined through years of observation, was finally coming to fruition.
He would use Miel's unique existence, his innate connection to Aetherweave, to delve deeper into the mysteries of Aerthos, to gain power, to understand the forces at play in this dangerous, fantastic world.