Silence fell again. But this time, it wasn't absence—it was presence.
A velvet pressure pressed against my mind, compressing words into thought, thought into dread.
My heart thundering: Why did I speak? Did I speak wrongly? Is he displeased?
Time slowed.
Then laughter. Quiet. Precise.
"You are… amusing," he said.
A pause.
"For someone of your caliber, you are quite… talented."
Another pause.
"But talent—talent is superficial. Achievements are real."
Talent, wisdom, knowledge—they're nothing but vanities, empty echoes in the void.
He paused again.
"Do you know what else you need to earn those real achievements?"
The pressure eased slightly. My thoughts scattered like broken glass: Is this a test? A trap?
I forced myself to nod, voice trembling:
"Great existence… I am ignorant. Enlighten me."
The pressure pulsed gently, like an inhale.
"Your arrogance has… disintegrated. Is it truly the same soul who sought negotiation with me—on our second meeting?"
Another beat.
"Forgive me," I whispered. "Then… I was foolish. Insignificant. You are great. Please… show me the road."
He waited. Unblinking.
"Very well," he said, voice smooth as obsidian.
"To achieve greatness, you need more than talent. You need perseverance, resilience, and desire."
And then, he told me the ancient Legend of Renzu:
PMS Fable: The Legend of Renzu
In a chance-forgotten valley, beneath the bones of a shattered mountain, lived Renzu.
Born to a shattered clan, with hands trembling and spirit bruised, he vowed to draw one drop of sunlight from the stone above him.
Day after day, Renzu struck the rock—not with fury, but with patience.
Each strike chipped nothing. The mountain mocked him in silent stone.
Yet Renzu returned each dawn: hammer in hand, hope in heart, despite the world telling him to stop.
Years passed. His body bent like the branches of an ancient tree.
His hands bled. His eyes weathered storms of despair.
But his spirit… his spirit remained.
One morning, Renzu returned, expecting to find the same granite face.
Instead, he found a crack. A single line running down the stone—thin and pure.
He widened it with care, and sunlight—like forgiveness—shattered through, spilling gold across his palms.
He had done the impossible.
But not by force. Not by might.
By perseverance—staying when no one else did.
By resilience—bearing the scars.
By desire—believing in a victory unseen.
His clan watched.
Some scoffed. Others wept.
But all learned:
Greatness is born when the world says "impossible"—yet you persist anyway.
I nodded slowly, awed.
He continued:
"You have done your job well. I do not care how you succeeded—only that you succeeded. It is enough."
Another pause, like a blade being considered.
"Your next task: go to Talonfall Cascade.
You must arrive after midnight and before dawn.
Stand before the waterfall. Chant 'Dialma'—again and again—until… you feel it respond.
When the world around you shifts—when reality quivers…
you will know it has begun."
He withdrew, and the pressure lifted like mist at dawn.
A final invitation hung in the air: Ask questions—if you dare.
My mind whirled:
How do I survive mutated beasts unharmed?
How did Kuro tame a wild monstrosity?
What is the truth of White Mage, Black Magician, Gray-Hat Jester?
But one question eclipsed them all:
"Great Existence—how may I, this insignificant being, address you?"
Silence stretched. Then, his voice returned—wrought from cosmic shadows:
"The universe is not built on truths.
It is built on mysteries.
They do not merely exist—they devour.
From the first flicker of time to its final collapse,
from creation to oblivion—
the mysteries shall never cease.
They shall never fade.
Like stars born in darkness,
they give rise to newer unknowns—
endlessly, mercilessly, silently.
Among these unknowns…
I am but one.
A ripple among ripples.
A shadow among shadows.
You may address me as…
Lord Unknown."