The valley's mist moved like long strands of cloth dancing to a melody only it could hear.
Its movements were slow—meditative—
as if every particle of mist was holding its breath, waiting for something important to unfold.
Ruan stood at the center of that circling mist, sensing how the valley's air now flowed with a rhythm he had never noticed before.
Once, this mist had been nothing but cold smoke obscuring the world.
Now—after his union with the Ancient Corpse Heart—it was alive, breathing, and speaking in a language without words, a language carried by soft waves brushing gently against the surface of his soul.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and felt the two pulses inside his chest move together like two notes in a single melody.
The first pulse was his own—familiar, warm, the rhythm of life he had known since birth.
The second was a deeper echo, slower, older—like the heartbeat of ancient earth awakening after thousands of years of sleep.
"These two pulses…" Ruan murmured without opening his eyes, letting the words flow like a small stream,
"they feel like two rivers that have finally met at the same estuary."
Ashar's voice rose from within his chest—clearer and stronger than ever.
"That is how union works. You did not lose your own heartbeat.
You simply added an older voice—one that asked to be remembered."
Ruan opened his eyes and gazed at the mist.
"My body doesn't feel the same. I feel lighter… but fuller."
"What you feel," Ashar said gently,
"is the birth of two halves of yourself that no longer fight each other.
Your body has accepted its hidden part.
And now, you are ready to see what humans cannot."
"You said I would see you today," Ruan spoke, letting his gaze travel across the subtly shifting mist.
"You will," Ashar answered.
"But I cannot appear in a human form.
If you wish to see the body I once wore, you would need human eyes.
But the world did not forgive my body.
What remains now is only movement of soul."
Ruan smiled softly.
"If this valley can accept wandering spirits, then I can accept you as well."
"You are different from the world," Ashar whispered.
Ruan bowed his head slightly, then asked,
"What must I do to see you?"
"Let the mist draw back," Ashar replied.
"Let it open the curtain it has long kept from you."
The mist responded at once—as if obeying a silent command.
Slowly, it parted to the sides, forming a narrow corridor leading toward the center of the valley.
Between the shifting layers appeared a faint silhouette that shimmered softly.
It had no clear form, its edges shifting like woven light and shadow,
yet Ruan sensed that the figure was looking at him with warmth.
"That's you…" he whispered as he stepped forward.
"Yes," Ashar answered.
"This is all that remains of my shape."
Ruan approached the silhouette, feeling the soft vibrations emanating from it.
It was not fear or threat—
but the gentle trembling of someone remembering the feeling of coming home after an unbearably long time.
"If this is your form," Ruan said,
"then I feel like I'm speaking with someone who has seen the world far longer than the mountains surrounding this valley."
Ashar chuckled softly, his voice echoing like a muted bell.
"Mountains rise and crumble, Ruan.
But some souls choose not to depart so easily."
Ruan studied the form with growing fascination.
"What does it feel like… to be like this?"
"Like an old wind that has lost its way," Ashar answered.
"I no longer have a body, but I remained because there was one thing left undone."
"What is it?" Ruan asked quietly.
"I was waiting for someone," Ashar replied.
"Someone who could look at death without hating it."
Ruan inhaled slowly.
"And you believe that person is me?"
"Not only believe," Ashar answered, "I know.
You came here without fear, without desire, without ambition to control.
You came with nothing but a heart seeking to understand."
Ruan looked at the silhouette, feeling a warmth he could not explain.
"Then… what must I do now?"
"You must learn to listen," Ashar said.
"Listen to what?"
"To the threads around you," Ashar answered.
"You saw them when your soul left your body.
Now you must see them with your body as well."
Ruan looked down at the valley floor.
The delicate threads appeared again—glowing faintly like gray silk suspended in the air.
They moved with the mist, twisting softly like paths guiding someone toward unfinished stories.
"I can see them," Ruan said as he reached for one.
"Because the eyes that see them now," Ashar replied,
"are no longer merely human."
Ruan felt a faint vibration when his fingers brushed the thread.
It wasn't harsh—but fragile—
like the memory of someone who had not fully let go.
"This thread contains a story," Ruan whispered.
"That is correct," Ashar said.
"Every death leaves behind a trail.
Every life leaves behind an echo."
Ruan stared at the thread for a long moment before asking,
"What happens if I pull it?"
"A story will unfold," Ashar replied.
"A story that may be too heavy for you at the moment.
You are not yet ready to bear the full weight."
"I understand." Ruan withdrew his hand.
"You must learn to weave, Ruan," Ashar continued.
"Weave?" Ruan echoed, confused.
"Yes," Ashar said.
"The path of an Eresh is not about taking or granting life.
It is about mending what has been torn.
You do not change death.
You simply re-weave the threads that still wish to speak."
Ruan fell silent, contemplating those words for a long moment.
"I don't fully understand yet…
but I want to learn."
"I know," Ashar replied.
"That is why the valley opened its path for you."
Ruan looked at Ashar's silhouette.
"What is the next step?"
"You must feel the voice of a severed thread," Ashar said.
"Threads… can speak?" Ruan asked, utterly bewildered.
"Yes," Ashar answered.
"For every thread carries a wound.
And wounds always speak—if you are willing to listen."
Ruan stepped closer to one of the threads and felt it tremble gently.
"I hear… something like a whisper."
"It is a pain that has not found release," Ashar explained.
"And you must learn to guide that voice."
"Am I meant to heal it?" Ruan asked.
"You do not heal," Ashar said.
"You accompany."
"That's all?"
"That," Ashar replied,
"is more than enough.
This world is too harsh for those who died with stories unfinished.
Your task is to give them a listener."
Ruan was quiet.
"I… will do it."
Ashar drifted closer—his form like mist drawn by a soft breeze.
"This is your first step toward the first technique of the Eresh Path."
"The first technique?" Ruan asked.
"Yes," Ashar said.
"Death Sense."
Ruan stood silent for a long moment.
"What is it?"
"The ability to hear the stories of death," Ashar said.
"Stories held by the valley, by souls, and by the severed threads around you."
Ruan looked across the valley—
a place that now resembled a vast library filled with books without covers.
"I… am ready."
And the valley trembled softly—
as though granting its blessing to a new disciple
taking his very first step into a forgotten art.