Chapter 515: Echoes Of The Past (8)

As the vision shifted and the dark forest of Kyrell spread before Liam’s eyes, the familiar scene made something deep within him stir. The whisper of the trees, the faint hiss of mist crawling across ancient roots—every detail was burned into his memory. He remembered how it all began… how he’d first stepped foot into that forsaken place after his grandfather’s death, carrying only vengeance and sorrow. For a fleeting second, that memory threatened to drown him. But then, with a slight grimace, Liam pushed it away, forcing his thoughts elsewhere.

He turned his gaze toward Aesmirius, who hovered beside him in ghostly calm. “Wait a minute,” Liam said, his tone flat, though curiosity lingered beneath it. “Before you keep going on with whatever is next, tell me—am I a descendant of yours?”

Aesmirius didn’t turn his head. His voice came, steady and detached. “Yes, you are.”

Liam’s eyes widened slightly, his lips curling into a faint, humorless chuckle. “Hah. That explains it,” he said dryly. “Now it makes sense why you told that green bastard, Sylvathar, that only I could wield your power.”

Then, as if the thought soured in his mind, he added, “Though, that was a lie, wasn’t it? Because if we’re being honest, that version of Sylvathar could’ve been an excellent vessel for you. He was durable, intelligent, and strong enough to contain that divine energy of yours. But that wouldn’t suit your greedy plan, would it? Not when he’s born of the thing you despised most.”

Aesmirius finally turned his eyes to Liam, his expression shadowed but firm. “Exactly. I would’ve rather lived frail and powerless than grant this gift to a demon.”

Liam gave him a sideways look, his tone low and muttered under his breath. “I’d wish for you to be frail again, honestly.”

Aesmirius heard it clearly. But rather than respond, he looked away, pretending the remark meant nothing.

“Hey,” Liam said after a pause, his tone indifferent as the scene before them shifted again. Now it showed a much younger version of himself—barely ten years old—fighting desperately beneath the trees of Kyrell, his small figure moving with reckless determination under Draven’s distant watch. “If all those before me died from not being able to handle Aetherion’s power… then how didn’t I? Don’t tell me I’m different, because I doubt I am.”

For a moment, silence reigned. Aesmirius’s gaze lingered on the vision before them, as if weighing his answer. Then he spoke, calm and composed. “You’re right. There’s no difference between you and the others. But the reason you’re still alive, the reason Aetherion didn’t burn you from the inside out… is because, over the centuries I spent waiting in the forest, I discovered a way to transfer Aetherion’s essence without killing the vessel.”

He continued, his tone taking on the weight of ancient experience. “I learned to seal it—make Aetherion dormant after transfer, allowing it to awaken only when the vessel was strong enough to bear it. A slumbering divinity, waiting for its host to evolve.”

Liam’s eyes narrowed slightly. “So that’s why I didn’t die when Jamak transferred Aetherion into me,” he murmured.

“Precisely,” Aesmirius said with a slow nod. Then, a faint glimmer crossed his eyes—something sharp, almost condescending. “Though, I’ll admit, while I am glad I no longer dwell within that sanctuary, I still wish your father had become my vessel instead of you.”

Liam’s head turned toward him, expression unreadable. “Is that so?” His voice carried no anger, no surprise—only a cool, flat tone that cut through the air. “Well, I think I have a fair idea why you’d prefer him over me. But go on—tell me yourself.”

Aesmirius looked at him for a long moment, as if studying his composure, and then finally turned away. “Your father awakened more of my divine lineage than anyone before him ever did. His body, his Myst, his soul—they resonated with darkness in a way unmatched by any mortal. If I had taken him as my vessel, crafting him into the perfect host for Aetherion would’ve been far easier. Far faster than it will be with you.”

Liam simply nodded, his tone even and faintly sardonic. “I see. Not too far from what I expected.”

Then, his gaze sharpened, his words slow and measured. “But that doesn’t bother me. Whether you like or dislike having me as your vessel means nothing. What matters is that you don’t even think about taking this body for yourself. You may have your goals, Aesmirius, and I have mine. But this body—this life—is mine and mine alone. I won’t let you use it as a stepping stone to your old glory.”

A heavy silence settled between them. The forest in the vision swayed in the distance, mist curling like smoke.

Liam continued, his voice steady and cold. “So, I’ll make this clear—you’d better figure out another way to kill Volgath without needing me as your vessel. Because that’s not happening.”

Aesmirius was quiet for a long while. His expression softened, then curved into a faint, knowing smirk. “Quite the boldness you have, Liam Hunter,” he said, amusement brushing his words. “But I suppose that’s expected of my own blood. The defiance, the pride—it’s in your nature.”

He drifted slightly closer, his tone dark but oddly approving. “Don’t worry. I’ve no need to take what’s already bound to purpose. You have something that makes all this easier—for both of us.”

Liam’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Aesmirius’s smirk deepened, his eyes gleaming faintly with divine light. “Your hatred,” he said. “The hatred you harbor for blood demons. It burns hotter than anything I could ignite within you. With that kind of fire… and with the memories I’ve shown you, there’s no need for me to steal your body. You’ll do what I could not. You’ll finish what I started.”

Liam’s eyes twitched subtly at Aesmirius’s words, his expression caught somewhere between relief and irritation. On one hand, he was glad—glad that the overbearing, greedy god-tyrant wasn’t planning to hijack his body and use it as a divine puppet. On the other hand, the realization that this same “enlightened” bastard was now offloading the burden of his unfinished war onto him made his blood simmer with quiet rage.

’So that’s how it is, huh? he thought bitterly. This crazy, self-absorbed bastard just wants to dump his failure of a war against Volgath on me so he can float off to whatever shiny, divine afterlife is waiting for him. How convenient.’ His jaw clenched slightly. ’He’s literally doing the same damn thing Aetherion did to him. Tch. What a vexing, hypocritical bastard.’

As Liam’s thoughts swirled, Aesmirius’s gaze flicked toward him, his once-calm expression twisting into a faint scowl. “You do realize I can hear your thoughts, right?” he said dryly, an edge of annoyance bleeding into his tone.

“Of course,” Liam replied, his voice smooth and unbothered. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t think them. Does it?” He tilted his head slightly. “I’d say I’m entitled to that much.”

Aesmirius’s eye twitched, his hand flexing as though he was resisting the very human urge to grab Liam by the throat. The faint pulse of divine irritation rippled through the air before he exhaled and composed himself again. “Well,” he said at last, tone flat and weary, “since you’ve learned what you came to learn, I suppose it’s about time you return to your little sparring sessions with your… old friends.”

He raised one hand, a faint light beginning to emanate from his palm, ready to dismiss the memory that surrounded them. But before the illusion could collapse, Liam’s voice cut through the haze.

“Hold on,” Liam said evenly. “There’s still something I need to know.”

Aesmirius lowered his hand slightly and turned his eyes toward him again. “And that is?”

“Back when I fought Jamak in the Dark Forest—the moment I survived and ended up with Aetherion’s power… was that your doing?”

Aesmirius didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he said dismissively, as if it were a trivial matter. “You wouldn’t have survived Jamak’s true power at your level back then. You only lived because I was… growing impatient, itching to leave the sanctuary.”

“Yeah, I figured as much,” Liam muttered, the faintest sigh slipping past his lips. Then his crimson eyes narrowed slightly. “Alright, then tell me something else. How did Draven and Jamak really end up as prisoners of the Dark Forest? Draven told me what he knew before he vanished—along with the forest—but something tells me that version wasn’t the whole truth. And since you seem to be the one pulling all the strings, I want to hear it straight from you.”

Aesmirius paused, his gaze dimming for a moment. He could sense the subtle shift in Liam’s tone—the faint weight in his voice when he mentioned Draven. Despite his usual indifference, the boy had formed some sort of bond with that man.

“Very well,” Aesmirius said finally, his tone calm but detached. “I lured them there. Both of them. I used a dream-link ability of mine to draw them into the Dark Forest. That was long before the place became a trial ground for aspiring knights and mages.”

Liam’s brow furrowed slightly. “So you’re saying they’d been trapped there for over a century. Forced to stay in that cursed forest, guiding and fighting all who entered it?”

Aesmirius shook his head faintly. “They were indeed trapped there for more than a century,” he confirmed. “But they weren’t required to guide or fight everyone who entered. Those who weren’t of dark affinity saw the forest for what it was—a twisted wilderness crawling with abominations. And even most dark mages who entered could not see its true nature, since they were not of my bloodline.”

Liam fell silent for a long moment. The shadows of memory flickered across his eyes—fragments of Draven’s voice, his teachings, the weight of his loss. Then, with a slow exhale, Liam blinked the thoughts away and turned his gaze back to Aesmirius.

“Alright,” he said at last, his voice low but steady. “Let’s get back to the Aether. I’m sick and tired of swimming through your endless memories.”

Aesmirius regarded him silently, then without a word, lifted his hand once more and the scene around them began to dissolve.

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