Aland leaned back against the old wooden chair, as if rearranging the order of the story in his mind.
"The heart of the tale is simple," he said at last. "Those whose lives are steeped in sin, who pile crime upon crime without remorse, will be judged by the Lord of Death in the afterlife. After that, they are sent to hell. But those who live good lives, who strive to be honest and compassionate, will be sent to heaven."
Bastian listened without interrupting, though his brow creased slightly.
"So what does that have to do with night and day?" he asked afterward.
Aland gave a thin smile, having expected the question. "I am not finished yet."
He leaned forward a little, his voice lower now, slower.
"Heaven is described as a place where human souls finally find rest. True peace. No hunger, no fear, no regret. A beautiful, tranquil place, filled with light so bright that there are no shadows at all."
Aland paused, making sure Bastian was still listening.
"In that tale, the souls of the good who dwell there become the fuel for the sun. Their pure light is what gives the world its daytime."
He drew a breath, and when he continued, his tone grew heavier.
"Hell, on the other hand, is its opposite. A place filled with nightmares, madness, and monsters. The souls sent there are tormented without end, in the substance of their souls and in their minds and identities as well, until little by little they lose who they truly are."
Aland stared into his teacup, as if seeing something on the surface of the liquid.
"In the story, those tortured souls become fuel for darkness. That is why there is night. And why is the night longer. Because, unfortunately, there are more people in hell than in heaven. Far more."
The room fell silent for a moment.
Bastian said nothing. His mind immediately rejected the old man's explanation. It was utterly unreasonable.
It sounded like something written by someone desperate, someone who wanted to give meaning to suffering and the illusion of justice to a world that was clearly unjust. A story created so people would keep trying to be good even as their lives were trampled, so they could sleep believing that all this pain had a purpose, lured by the promise of reward or punishment after death.
It was ridiculous. Naive.
And yet Bastian understood why such stories were born.
In a world already this chaotic and cruel, it was not necessarily a bad thing. On the contrary, it might be exactly what was needed.
A narrative that allowed ordinary people to endure day after day, to stop themselves from robbing their neighbors when starving, to still share their last piece of bread. A subtle, deeply human survival mechanism.
So that people could still have Hope in this cursed world.
Even so…
There was a small part of him that, for no clear reason, believed it a little. Perhaps because it offered an explanation for the chaos he had lived through.
Bastian clicked his tongue softly.
"Ridiculous," he said at last. "It is obviously just a made-up story. Designed to teach children, or to scare fools into behaving."
Aland was not offended. He smiled faintly instead. "But it is a good and beautiful story, is it not?"
Bastian fell silent for a moment, then nodded slightly. "Yes. Beautiful."
Aland watched that expression, the faint crease in his brow, the distant look in his eyes. He knew Bastian was thinking, perhaps even preparing to argue again. So before that could happen, he continued.
"Then," he said, "do you know why there are stars in the sky at night?"
Bastian sighed, bracing himself for the next piece of nonsense. "What now?"
"They are the souls of humans from heaven," Aland said with conviction. "They fight against the darkness from hell, trying to illuminate the night and protect the world."
Now Bastian could not hold back his cynicism. "So the human souls that have reached heaven and are supposed to enjoy 'eternal peace' still have to come down and fight? Where is the peace in that?"
Aland nodded, already prepared for the question. "Not all souls. Only the chosen ones. Those with extraordinary light, heroes, saints, those who shone brighter than others. Have you never heard the story that every great hero who dies becomes a star in the sky?"
"More nonsense," Bastian snapped. "Can any of this be proven?"
Aland shrugged, his expression suddenly very honest and almost innocent. "Since when has this world made sense, young man? It is just a story. You may believe it or not. But I believe it with all my heart. It comforts me."
Their conversation continued. Bastian, who rarely had the chance or the desire to argue about anything that did not involve swords or battlefield tactics, found himself drawn into a long, winding debate with the old man. He challenged every point, mocked every allegory, demanded proof for every claim.
In the middle of it, without intending to, a question slipped from his mouth. "Then someone like me, who has killed more people than I can count, will definitely go to hell, right?"
Aland looked at him, his eyes filled with careful scrutiny. Then he smiled faintly.
"Don't worry. The Lord of Death is not that petty. Judgment is not just a matter of numbers. And most importantly," he leaned forward, "you can start becoming a better person right now. It can begin with something small."
His eyes sparkled with mischief. "For example, apologizing to me for being so rude, and starting to show some respect since I am older."
Bastian snorted. "Fuck off."
This time, Aland could not hold back. "You little bastard!"
And they laughed, or rather, Aland laughed loudly while Bastian merely let out a short grunt that could be considered laughter.
Their conversation went on. About Aland's theory that the gods were the consciousness of the world itself. About what angels could do. About dragons and other ancient beings. About many other things that sounded ridiculous to Bastian, and that he argued against relentlessly.
Even so, without realizing it, Bastian was enjoying himself.
It had been a long time since he had talked this much.
Before he knew it, four hours had passed. The light through the window showed the sun cooling, the sky shifting into shades of orange and purple. Bastian stood up.
"I have to go."
Aland nodded and stood as well, with some effort. When Bastian reached the doorway, the old man called out to him.
"You still have not told me your name, young man."
Bastian turned. "Bastian."
Aland smiled. "Then would you like to hear some foolish words from an old man who will die soon?"
Bastian stayed silent, waiting.
"Bastian," Aland said softly, "no matter how dark your night is, and how much it blinds you, there will always be a star shining for you."
Bastian did not reply. He simply nodded once, then turned and walked away, following the dirt path now bathed in the colors of dusk.
Now, beneath the shifting sky, his mind, warmed by conversation and tea, turned toward darker things.
He thought of Edgar Valobry, the Supreme Commander, the brother of the man he had butchered. He thought of their coming meeting and began planning how to kill him.