Vale sat beneath the five black suns, their dim, overlapping light painting his pale skin in shades of red and silver. Before him, the small white creature had begun to stand on shaky legs, its movements uncertain but determined. Each step it took sent faint ripples through the surface of the bloody sea, and the reflection of the suns fractured around it like shards of glass.
The three familiar creatures, the great white tiger, the sleek black lizard, and the crimson centipede, had already gathered nearby. They watched in quiet fascination, their forms still and regal, as if instinctively recognizing the importance of what they were witnessing. Every so often, one of them made a small movement, a flick of a tail, a low chitter, a soft growl, that seemed to urge the newborn forward. Vale could feel the faint pulse of the creature's emotion: curiosity, patience, something close to pride.
Through the resonance link, he could sense the newborn's feelings as clearly as his own heartbeat. The creature was happy, clumsy and confused, but happy. Yet beneath that joy was a deep, wordless longing, the soft ache of something missing. It knew instinctively that none of those around it, not the tiger, not the chained man, not even Vale himself, were its true parent.
Vale tilted his head, a faint melancholy in his eyes. "Strange little thing," he murmured. "You already know what loss feels like?"
Still, the creature's liveliness returned quickly. When Vale reached out a cautious finger, its small pale head darted forward and bit him, though gently, with tiny, incomplete teeth. Startled, Vale blinked, then laughed aloud, the sound breaking the heavy quiet of the sea.
"You sure are playful, aren't you?"
From where he sat, the chained man gave no reply, but beneath the black mask, a faint smile curved unseen. His voice didn't betray it, but the warmth in the air did, a quiet pride, the sort a teacher feels when a student takes joy in something fragile.
Vale gently turned the little creature over with his finger, letting it rest in the hollow of his palm. The newborn twitched and kicked, then finally went still, accepting his touch. Vale rubbed its small belly carefully, watching it wriggle with delight.
"A name, huh?" Vale mused aloud, remembering the chained man's earlier words. He kept his gaze averted from the creature's eyes, mindful of the warning not to stare too long.
He thought for a while, his mind wandering through names like drifting embers in a dying fire. Finally, he spoke again, softly:
"How about… Ember?"
The creature froze for a moment, then chirped, a sharp, curious sound. Through the link, Vale felt a rush of warmth, recognition, approval and happiness. He smiled, at the emotion that bloomed inside him.
"Ember it is, then," he said.
From his makeshift seat, a pile of old books, the chained man tilted his head slightly. His voice, calm and deep as ever, broke the stillness.
"Why Ember?"
Vale lifted his gaze toward him, still smiling faintly. "I don't know," he admitted. "Its eyes were that color when I first saw them. It just… felt right."
There was no symbolism, no deeper meaning, just instinct. The man regarded him for a few silent moments before returning his gaze to the creature.
"Keep it close to you," he said finally, his tone carrying an odd softness. "It needs to get used to you… and your scent."
Vale blinked at the choice of words, then nodded slowly. "I see," he murmured.
He extended his hand, palm open. The little creature blinked its golden-orange eyes, then, after a brief pause, began to climb his arm. Its tiny claws pricked faintly against his pale skin as it made its way upward before settling at last upon his shoulder. Once there, it gave a small sound, half sigh, half chirp, and curled up. Within seconds, its breathing slowed; it had fallen asleep.
It was still a hatchling, after all. Even celestial beasts had their limits.
Vale smiled gently, careful not to move too quickly and disturb it. "Sleep well, Ember," he whispered.
The chained man watched in silence, his presence looming like a shadow given shape. Vale turned to him after a moment, curiosity lighting his face once more. "Do you know what this little one eats?" he asked.
The man shrugged faintly. "Atum," he replied. "So… basically nothing."
Vale blinked. "Nothing? That's convenient."
He chuckled lightly, but then his expression turned thoughtful. He looked down at the sea beneath them, the strange, breathing ocean that sustained their realm. "Then again… do we even eat here?"
That question seemed to catch the chained man off guard. His head tilted slightly, as though the idea hadn't occurred to him in centuries. "We can," he said after a pause. "Why?"
Vale shrugged. "I just thought it'd be nice to taste food again. You know, since I'm still human and all."
The man placed a hand against his chin, the gesture slow and oddly contemplative. For a long while, he said nothing, the silence stretching between them until even the sound of the sea seemed to fade. Vale watched, curious, wondering what thoughts turned behind that obsidian mask.
Then, without warning, the chained man raised his hand. Reality itself seemed to bend around his gesture, a thin crack of pure darkness opening in the air before him. From within that rift, he reached and withdrew a single thin book, its pages bound in dark grey leather. He tossed it toward Vale with practiced ease.
Vale caught it effortlessly, careful not to jostle the sleeping Ember on his shoulder. He glanced down at the cover and read aloud:
"Atum Theory: Specialized Field, Nirvana."
He ran his thumb over the embossed letters, brow furrowing. "Nirvana?" he murmured. "I've never seen that volume before…"
The chained man had already turned away, walking back toward the center of the black suns, the point he always returned to. He never strayed far from it for long, as though something invisible tethered him there.
Vale watched him for a few seconds, then leaned back against the pile of books he'd already finished. The air was still, heavy with quiet power. He opened the book carefully and began to read, his pale eyes flicking across the first page with genuine interest.
"Interesting…" he whispered again.
The hatchling stirred faintly on his shoulder but didn't wake. Its warmth, soft and steady against his neck, made the bloody sea feel almost calm, almost friendly.
And beneath the five black suns, Vale read on, surrounded by silence, strange creatures, and the quiet heartbeat of a newborn beast.
Vale read for a long time.
Hours passed, maybe days, it was hard to tell beneath the unmoving black suns. Their dim light never changed, and the bloody sea around him rippled in lazy rhythm, indifferent to time.
He had gone through several chapters dozens of times without pause, his focus sharp, unbroken. Finally, with a quiet exhale, he closed the book and set it down beside him.
"Well," he muttered, rubbing his temples, "that was useless."
The book's cover caught the faint light as it landed on the crimson surface beside him. In truth, it hadn't been entirely useless. He had learned what the "Nirvana" was, or rather, what others thought it might be.
According to the text, the Nirvana was the apex of consciousness and power, the point where perception aligned perfectly with reality's true essence. Within it, time slowed to a crawl, thought became infinite, and the very world unfolded naked before one's eyes. A being who entered this state could strike with impossible precision. Every movement would carry the weight of divine understanding. Every attack would find its mark, no matter how clumsy the hand that delivered it.
Even the weakest blade, guided by the Nirvana, could cut through steel like butter.
It was terrifying, and beautiful.
But as Vale read deeper, he realized the catch. Entering such a state was described as near impossible, reserved for gods or beings beyond mortal comprehension. The book insisted that it wasn't entirely unattainable for mortals, but its author had gone to great lengths to emphasize just how unlikely it was.
Vale sighed, running a hand through his hair. "So basically… I learned that I'll never learn it," he said dryly.
He glanced to his shoulder. Ember had woken up some time ago, his small orange eyes half-lidded with drowsy curiosity. The pale creature yawned, a tiny sound escaping its throat. Vale smiled faintly and reached up, rubbing the top of its smooth head with a finger. Ember leaned into the touch with a soft hum that Vale could feel through their bond, a flicker of warmth and affection.
"Guess you're not interested in philosophy, huh?" Vale said softly.
He rose from his seat, stretching his arms until his joints popped. His body felt stiff from sitting too long. When he looked up again, his gaze froze.
Before him stood the chained man, though "stood" wasn't quite accurate. The man was working.
Somehow, impossibly, he had summoned an entire kitchen.
An actual, functioning kitchen stood on the surface of the bloody sea. Metal counters gleamed in the dull light. A stove hissed softly with burning gas. A faint aroma, warm, rich, and shockingly familiar, hung in the air. Vale blinked once, twice, then rubbed his eyes.
"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered. "How does he keep doing this?"
He began walking closer, his boots sloshing faintly through the shallow red liquid. As he approached, he realized the setup was no illusion. Every knob, every light, every sound was real. Even the faint hum of heat from the stove brushed against his skin.
The chained man stood before it, calmly tending to something in a black iron pan. His movements were steady, methodical, the kind of grace only centuries of practice could create.
Vale stopped beside him, still trying to make sense of what he was seeing. "Is that… bacon?" he asked, half whisper, half disbelief.
Without turning, the chained man pointed toward one of the high bar stools beside the counter. His voice came smooth and measured, resonating beneath the mask.
"Take a seat."
Vale hesitated, glancing between the man and the impossible kitchen, then did as told. The stool creaked faintly under his weight as he sat. Ember, still perched on his shoulder, lifted its head, sniffing curiously at the scent in the air.
The chained man continued cooking for a moment longer before speaking again, his tone casual, as if this entire surreal scene were perfectly ordinary.
"We are going to eat."
Vale blinked. "Eat," he echoed, still half expecting the illusion to vanish. "You're serious?"
The man gave the faintest tilt of his head. "I wouldn't have built this for decoration."
A low chuckle escaped Vale before he could stop it. "You really are something else," he murmured, shaking his head. "I spend hours trying to learn the mysteries of this so called Nirvana, and you… you make dinner."
The chained man didn't respond. But the faintest ripple of amusement moved through the air between them, quiet, restrained, but undeniably there.
Vale leaned his elbow on the counter, resting his chin against his hand. "Alright then," he said. "Let's see what kind of food you eat."