Aeren walked through the darkness. The garden lay ahead, dim and quiet, untouched by the fear spreading beyond its walls. When he drew closer, he found Art still painting. That surprised him.
While others hid from the shadow, while some embraced cruelty to erase their terror, Art remained unchanged. He neither fled nor resisted. He simply painted, as if the darkness did not exist.
Aeren stopped beside him and looked at the canvas. Nothing had changed. The painting was the same as before—unfinished, unmoving. Art continued to work, yet the image refused to shift, as though it rejected completion.
Aeren broke the silence.
"Young master," he said softly, pointing toward the canvas, "your painting hasn't progressed. Do you need help?"
There was no arrogance in his voice. Only sincerity. He spoke as one watching another struggle honestly—someone willing to assist if the desire was genuine.
"No," Art replied immediately. "I'll do it myself."
He glanced at Aeren from the corner of his eye, surprise flickering across his expression at finding him here in the darkness. Then his attention returned to the canvas.
From the beginning, Art had sensed something off about Aeren. His cultivation was low, his presence unremarkable—yet something never quite aligned. Art had dismissed it before. But now, standing beside him in this shadow, the truth became clearer. Aeren's mind was calm. Too calm.
Not ignorance. Not bravery. But indifference born from understanding.
Art's lips curved slightly as he continued painting—as if, for the first time, someone nearby truly understood why the canvas refused to change.
Aeren was slightly surprised by the refusal, though he did not show it. Instead, he lifted his gaze to the sky—now drowned in shadow.
"Don't you fear this darkness?" he asked, brushing past Art's rejection as though it no longer mattered.
He could sense it clearly. Even Art was affected, though only faintly. The shadow touched him, yet its impact was barely perceptible. After all, it was still his own creation.
"I don't," Art replied. Then, after a pause: "I once did."
He turned toward Aeren, studying him briefly. Aeren stood with arms folded, posture relaxed, expression calm. Art noticed the stillness in his movements, the absence of tension, and turned back to his canvas.
"How is that possible?" Aeren asked quietly. "Is there anyone here who doesn't fear this?"
He walked slowly around the canvas, letting his gaze drift across the empty garden. No animals. No movement. That didn't surprise him. Even cosmic beings feared truth when it came wrapped in shadow.
"Yes," Art answered without hesitation, his tone calm as his brush continued. "You. I haven't seen you fear it even once. Since you arrived, not a single moment."
Art glanced at Aeren again. "Even Father created me this way, yet I still feel a faint shiver within myself. But you—" His brush slowed. "I've been watching you. Reading your presence. And still, nothing changes. No fear. No resistance."
He let out a soft breath.
"It's surprising. Either you're someone who doesn't feel fear, or you're someone so far beyond it that darkness has nothing left to take from you."
The garden remained silent. The shadow pressed down on the world. Yet Aeren stood there untouched, as if darkness itself could not decide what he truly was.
"Why do you think I don't fear it?" Aeren said, stopping mid-step, his voice lowering. "Maybe I'm just a demon who accepted the shadow—and found relief in that fear."
Art looked at him deeply, as if trying to read something far beneath the surface. He studied Aeren for a long moment, then Aeren turned his eyes back to the garden and resumed walking, slowly circling Art and the canvas.
"Yeah," Art said after a moment, "maybe you're right."
He still couldn't tell what Aeren truly is—God or Demon. But to Art, it no longer mattered. What mattered was something else entirely. Art wanted to meet his father. To show him this world. Yet in his heart, he wasn't sure such a meeting was even possible. He didn't know whether his father still existed somewhere, or whether he had been lost, merged into those two forces—nothingness and pause—beyond reach.
Art spoke again, quieter this time.
"But you don't have the qualities of a demon. What you're doing isn't acceptance. You're destroying your own mental state to feel nothing in the darkness. I can sense that broken stillness inside you."
Aeren laughed softly.
"Hahaha… yeah. Maybe you're right, young master."
He stopped behind Art and leaned in slightly, peeking at the canvas. Art paused his brush.
"Well, you still have a long way to go."
An entire evening had passed, and only a single line had been formed—yet Art smiled as though he had completed a masterpiece. Several brushes lay in his hands, each stained with different colors.
"What do you think?" Art asked, turning toward Aeren. His smile was open and genuine, teeth visible, eyes bright—and it almost made Aeren smile in return.
"It's good," Aeren said simply. "You'll finish it."
He reached out and patted Art's shoulder gently. In that shadowed garden, beneath a sky drowned in darkness, that small gesture carried more warmth than fear ever could.
"Yeah, I will," Art answered excitedly.
He exhaled deeply as he looked at the painting, as if that single line had drained more from him than he realized. Behind him, Aeren watched quietly, taking in the sight—the young being's joy, his determination, his innocence. For a brief moment, something stirred in Aeren's chest. Affection, perhaps. Or regret.
He swallowed it.
"Aarav," Art said, his voice tired now, "let's rest a little. I'm exhausted."
As Art tried to take a step forward, weakness spread through his body. His legs refused to respond. Dizziness followed.
He collapsed. Before hitting the ground, Aeren caught him. With a quiet sigh, Aeren glanced into the distance, spotting a table and a chair nearby. He lifted Art with ease, carried him there, and gently placed him into the chair.
Once Art was settled, Aeren remained standing for a moment, looking at his face. Innocent. Peaceful. That innocence was turned toward a father who had abandoned him.
For a brief moment, guilt surfaced within Aeren. He swallowed it.
Then he sat down across from Art, leaning back calmly. He watched the young being's breathing, steady and deep. He could see the affection Art felt toward him—clear and undeniable—but it was not the same as what Aeren felt.
Not even close.
"Goodbye, child," Aeren whispered.
Then he vanished into the darkness.
***
Hours passed.
The darkness faded, and warmth slowly returned to the world. Art remained asleep in the chair, his posture relaxed, his breathing calm. When Isha came looking for him, she found him exactly as Aeren had left him.
She smiled quietly and took a seat across from him. She searched the surroundings for Aeren but found no trace of him. After a while, she assumed he had left—and perhaps he would return someday.
Her attention returned to Art. His face looked relieved. Happy. She chose not to wake him.
"Rest well, Master," she whispered softly.
A faint flush colored her cheeks as she watched him, his beauty far beyond any god she had ever known. She felt glad that he could finally rest after working tirelessly for an entire month.
Then—Art's eyes twitched.
Isha noticed immediately. She stood up at once, stepped closer, and gently leaned beside him. Her voice was soft and steady as she whispered near his ear: "Good morning, Master Art."
Art opened his eyes the moment her soft voice reached him. He turned his head and smiled. "Good morning, Isha." His voice was relaxed, his expression warm. The moment felt peaceful—more so than usual.
"You're here early," Art said casually as he shifted his gaze toward the table. That was when he noticed it. A cup of tea. His smile widened. He reached out, picked up the cup, and took a slow sip.
"I wanted to surprise you, Master," Isha said, standing beside him with quiet confidence and a hint of pride. Inside, her thoughts raced. Miss Piyu taught me well. Master's tastes, his preferences—I put almost all of my refined cosmic energy into this tea. I was exhausted after making just one cup. But seeing this smile makes it worth every drop.
Art took another sip. "Hm… ah," he murmured softly. "It's good, Isha. You make tea beautifully—almost heavenly."
The compliment made her heart flutter.
As the warmth spread through him, Art felt his fatigue fade. His mind cleared, his body felt lighter. She's improved, he thought. I never imagined she'd reach this level. Before, the tea felt plain. But this—this truly refreshes me. Maybe I should do something for her.
He continued sipping thoughtfully. Then his gaze drifted to the empty chair across from him. A faint memory surfaced. Last night. Aarav. Something Aarav had said. For just a moment, Art paused—his smile lingering, but something else stirring quietly in his mind.
"Thank you, Master," Isha replied excitedly. Hearing praise from Art made her heart race. Master likes my tea, she thought happily. I should spend more time learning from Miss Piyu. As her joy settled, she noticed Art pause. His gaze drifted to the empty chair, his expression distant, almost dazed. Concern flickered in her eyes.
"Master," she asked softly, gently placing her hand on his shoulder, "what are you thinking about?"
Art snapped out of his thoughts and turned toward her, meeting her confused gaze. "Oh—sorry," he said quietly. "I was remembering last night. Aarav was with me." He hesitated, his voice slowing. "I feel like I heard something important. Something meaningful. But I can't remember what it was."
His eyes dropped to the floor, a faint heaviness settling over him. Isha noticed immediately. Seeing him like this made her chest ache, and a quiet sadness crept into her expression.
At the same time, surprise stirred within her. Aarav was awake when the darkness swallowed everything. Just thinking about that darkness made her shiver. If she had remained outside, it would have consumed her whole.
Is he really a demon? she wondered.
Even demons feared that darkness. They worshipped it, yes—but only through ritual, only through the madness that came with surrender. No one remained stable inside that shadow. Even demons endured the night only because the insanity brought warmth afterward—energy in the morning that justified their descent.
But Aarav... Aarav didn't descend into madness. He walked through it unchanged. What is he really?