As tears streamed down his cheeks, a warm and pleasant breeze embraced him, and a dazzling golden light shone in the sky. There were no more spirits or stormy weather. It was as if that long nightmare had finally ended, and he was now in another world.
Lucian's heart was pounding wildly, so much so that it almost slipped from his hand. The green and lush grass under his feet bent in the wind. The entire plain swayed with the wind, resembling the surface of the sea.
Cyrus stepped forward and stood atop a high mountain covered with fresh grass.
A clear stream flowed beside him, cascading over the edge of a cliff. A small rainbow formed just below the cliff, and beneath his feet, a sea of cotton-like clouds stretched to infinity.
As Lucian's heart calmed, he was immersed in the beauty and tranquility of the scene.
Cyrus closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The scent of the mountains filled his being.
The tears on his cheeks dried.
Miraculously, it seemed as if all his sorrows had left him. He felt light, as if there had never been any pain or suffering.
Despite this, he hadn't noticed the man sitting a little further away on a smooth rock.
His eyes fell on him unconsciously.
The man was elderly, with the appearance of someone who had seen the ups and downs of life. He wore white clothes made of silk. Ignoring Cyrus, he watched the sun over the sea of clouds.
Cyrus sat on the ground next to the man.
He did this unconsciously.
He didn't feel any danger. Now that Lucian was dead, the gods would stop pursuing him for a while. But at this moment, none of these matters were important.
Cyrus closed his eyes and reviewed everything once more.
The stream that flowed down the mountain burrowed into the ground and crept under the man's feet.
The old man touched the rock, and a golden goblet formed in his hands.
Water rose from the ground and, by its own will, filled the goblet.
The old man offered the goblet to Cyrus.
Cyrus had no will of his own. The old man was very strange. He couldn't be described in words. He had a terrifyingly powerful presence; yet he was as calm as an ocean. It seemed he could disrupt the world's peace at any moment.
Cyrus bowed slightly in gratitude. He felt that all this tranquility was owed to that mysterious being.
The old man smiled.
Cyrus saw his reflection in the goblet.
He touched his face.
"My eyes…"
"You've always had beautiful eyes…" The old man said.
Cyrus came to his senses.
"Do you know me?"
"I know everyone, and everyone knows me." The old man smiled and said.
This claim was very strange. Cyrus didn't know him, but a feeling formed within him.
"I have thousands of names, but the name most people call me is 'God.'" He continued.
Cyrus was taken aback. The old man wasn't joking. No, this wasn't something to joke about. This man was something beyond the realm of meaning and the gods he knew. Cyrus understood this in an instant; he was meaning itself.
He was speechless. He didn't dare say anything. The golden goblet trembled in his hands. But the old man showed no sign of anger.
With a voice that seemed to come from the depths of the cloudy sea, he said, "Among the creatures of the realm of meaning, you are the most interesting."
"In what way?" Cyrus reluctantly asked.
"That's an answer you must find for yourself." The old man replied.
Cyrus said nothing.
"You've traveled a long way, living as a superior being, living as a mortal, and now wandering the river of time like a Whisperer." The old man continued.
"A Whisperer??"
"Forgetfulness is a great blessing, Cyrus. You must understand this well. But what a tragic fate you endure; a being that never forgets has fallen into forgetfulness…"
Cyrus sighed and swallowed his fear.
"How did I become a Whisperer… am I not alive? I guess now I understand why I'm immortal; I died long ago."
The old man smiled and said, "No, you didn't die, but you're not alive either."
Cyrus understood the words he heard.
Life without death wasn't life, but he didn't die; so it could be inferred that he didn't live. It was very simple. It was like defining light in the absence of darkness. If there was no darkness, light had no meaning. Cyrus was the same. Life had no meaning for him.
"On earth, you were the Whisper of Freedom, but you sacrificed your freedom to save that boy and couldn't find a belief for yourself. But then you reached a new belief and became the Whisper of Identity. Then your belief shifted towards remembrance, and you became the Whisper of Truth."
It was then that Cyrus understood a great truth. He was a Whisperer.
"But don't be mistaken, you're different from ordinary Whisperers."
"How am I different? I'm just the remnant of a forgotten being. A being without identity, wandering between thousands of worlds to remember who it once was." Cyrus said.
"To remember?"
Cyrus remembered the times he sealed his memories. Then he looked at Lucian's heart and said softly, "You've chosen a bitter fate for me…"
"I chose? What did you do then? Did you follow my choices? How do you know they were my choices?" The old man replied.
When Cyrus heard this, it was as if a bucket of water was poured over his head. He gritted his teeth and remembered Lucian's screams. He couldn't accept that all those actions were truly his own decisions. He needed a convincing reason and wanted to blame someone else for these ruthless choices. So he became angry and, without thinking about the consequences, said, "It's true, I made the choices, but you forced me to do them!"
The old man remained calm.
"You can't live without making choices; because in the end, it's the choices that shape the world's destiny."
His eyes filled with tears, and he fell to his knees.
"I… I… feel like I've lost something precious… I feel it, but I can't remember…"
"Now that you can't remember, it's better to follow the whisper of your soul." The old man said.
"But… the further I go, the more complicated everything becomes… I… I don't want to continue. Maybe it's better to go back and forget everything." Cyrus swallowed his anger and said with a trembling voice.
"That's also a choice. But don't forget, every choice has a price, and that price is your destiny…" The old man replied.
"Why don't you help me?"
The old man stood up. In silence, he stared at the horizon. Before answering, he looked into Cyrus's eyes for a few moments.
"I am your creator, I gave you freedom, I listened to you, I was with you in your loneliness… there's nothing more I can give you."
"But…"
"But it's not enough… I know, it will never be enough."
Cyrus clenched his fist. There was no other choice.
"Then… I must continue."
"That's right, you just have to continue." The old man smiled.
The sun had descended a bit lower. Its round shape kissed the crosshatched edge of the clouds, casting a gentle hue over them.
"Choices…" Cyrus pondered.
"It's good to think sometimes, but some things can't be understood with mere thought." The old man said.
"True, like when you don't know the answer to something and attribute everything to God and His will." Cyrus gave a bitter smile and said.
The old man smiled.
Cyrus finally understood that God's will was the existence of creatures; everything else depended on the conditions and decisions made. If he succeeded or failed, it was his own doing. If he succumbed to oppression, he was to blame. If he remained under oppression, it was because he had surrendered.
If he had physical problems, there was always a reason. God's will was the laws of creation. God's will maintained the order of the world; it wasn't that God created one person deaf and another blind. Everything had a cause. That cause followed God's will but wasn't influenced by it.
God's will was a path that everyone moved along. Moving in a direction other than that was impossible. People called this the determinism of the world; but within this determinism, there was also free will. In this path, the choice of how to move was up to the individual.
"A storm is coming." The old man pointed to the boundless sea of clouds and said.
Cyrus scanned the sea of clouds.
A small gray spot appeared in the midst of the whiteness. Occasionally, a momentary brightness enveloped it, and then everything returned to normal. That spot, like a black hole with infinite gravity, changed the shape of the surrounding clouds.
The clouds swirled around that gray spot like a black vortex.
The sun, half-hidden behind the clouds, took on a bloody hue. Now the stormy atmosphere was largely evident. That spot spread like a mushroom, creating a much larger vortex.
"Your next destination is there, Cyrus."
And he pointed to the eye of the storm.
"Where is that?" Cyrus asked.
"That is your lost throne, Cyrus. That is the realm of memories." The old man replied.