Celsius and Somber traveled through the cold night toward their next destination: the Virtue of Kindness.

There are stories running around in circles about him. A boy, older than time itself, perhaps older than the very world they inhabited. Hostaged to life through a spell of kindness…

A curse that could undo any damage around its wielder, resetting everything to its original state, as though time was reversed.

This spell had been working its wonders for millennia, long before the world had formed, long before divinity had even been born.

Could it have been a primordial roar?

An ancient wish, twisted and corrupted into something dark—a force meant to preserve and protect, but distorted over centuries into something unrecognizable?

The cursed user—a young boy in pristine condition—had been discovered by a group of adventurers.

His appearance gave off a heroic aura, the kind one might expect from a protagonist of many legends, but his demeanor was anything but.

The boy’s body was utterly still. His eyes, devoid of light, stared into nothingness, unblinking.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t breathe.

…

He didn’t think?

To all outward appearances, he seemed alive, fine and healthy, so the adventurers chose caution, watching for a while over him. Mimics and shape-shifters were known to play the long game, after all.

They simply did the right thing, even sent an immediate report to the right guild.

But it was a space for the public, and word of the anomaly eventually spread quickly.

The authorities, even the public, they all chose patience. And, for five months, they observed, waiting for something—anything—to change. But the boy neither moved nor decayed. He simply remained.

On the last day of the fifth month, a pair of criminals—a reckless duo—decided to test their luck. Perhaps they were bored, or maybe they saw an opportunity to exploit him. Some even gossiped about how they meant to sell his organs on the black market, seeing his stillness as some sort of strange coma.

It was them and their actions that triggered the curse’s true colors.

One of the criminals attempted to strike the boy, damage inflicting upon his body—and that was when it happened.

A blinding light erupted from the boy, engulfing the entire area. It was as if the very world around him was undone, reverting to a pristine state, as though nothing had ever happened.

The snow-covered ground, scarred by the criminals’ footsteps, sprouted fresh, green grass that broke through the icy layer. The trees, once bare and lifeless, suddenly bloomed with vibrant fruits and flowers. The animals, once frozen and near death from hunger, leapt to life—bears roused from hibernation, full of energy, and hungry creatures finding themselves nourished without explanation. Even the criminals—wounded, parched, and starving—felt their pains dissipate.

It was as if death itself was forbidden in the boy’s presence. The curse acted without any thought, automatically undoing any harm done to him, restoring everything around him to life.

The boy, like a statue, did not move or acknowledge the phenomenon.

He simply existed.

He sat there on a tree’s trunk, a spot he probably claimed long before the world formed.

He was trapped in a state of unending life, or worse; he was forced to live.

A horrifying existence where death was an impossibility.

A curse that forced him to live no matter what, and in doing so, it forced all things around him to live as well.

His mind…

It resigned to the only death he was allowed to reach: the death of feeling, the death of awareness.

Forsaking his humanity for the comfort of death, even if it was fake.

His reactions were hollow, unfeeling, robotic. Even when a blade pierced his throat—there was no gasp of pain, no cry for help. Just a muted, silent surrender to the inevitable.

He didn’t flinch.

The wound healed the moment it was inflicted, just like everything else around him. The gaping cut closed seamlessly, as though the very notion of injury were an affront to the world’s natural order in his presence. His eyes—if you could call them eyes—remained empty. No terror. No agony. Not even the barest hint of recognition.

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…

The mind, in its silence, had simply learned to fade away, adjusting to the horror of eternity by closing off entirely.

A terrifying and unstoppable ability that clearly bore hatred towards time itself! It allowed no death, no injury, and no harm. And that was the true horror of it.

The boy, the victim of this tragic power, was forever bound to it.

To live.

To never die.

“Somber, you know the phrase ‘Only God knows how much he’s endured?”

“I do!”

“It’s funny, because the Gods are younger than him! Gyohohohoho!”

Celsius and Somber paused at the edge of the forest, the nearby glow of the cursed boy’s presence still casting a faint light across the horizon. They made their way through the overgrown trees, a dense forest alive with movement. Wild grass swayed beneath their feet, thick and unruly, as animals—rabbits, foxes, and birds—darted between the underbrush, oblivious to their presence. The air was rich with the scent of damp earth and fresh foliage, and the faint rustle of creatures in the distance hinted at the life thriving in the wilderness.

The deeper they ventured, the more the world seemed to pulse with unnatural vitality. Even the faintest scratches of their boots against the ground seemed to echo, and the forest’s chaotic beauty was unsettling in its vibrant stillness.

As they emerged from the thicket, the cursed boy came into view, standing motionless in the clearing. His figure was almost ethereal against the backdrop of the forest’s strange rebirth, untouched by the wildness around him. The light from his presence lingered in the air, casting a soft glow on the surrounding plants, the trees, and even the animals, who moved like shadows across the land—alive, yet trapped in the same unnatural stasis.

“The Virtue of Kindness,” Somber muttered, the words laced with a mix of disdain and pity. “That’s what they call it, isn’t it? But who would call this ‘kindness’?”

Celsius invaded, clearly pissed off by the tableau. “What kind of kindness is it to rob someone of their right to die?”

It seemed like time was, sometimes, partially allowed in, but only if it brought with it the gifts of beauty—reflected in his white eyes and hair. This was his existence, stuck between the eternity of stillness and the fleeting illusion of life. A child in form, but a monument in purpose. A curse of perfect beauty, captured in an endless moment.

Celsius exhaled, a pointless habit. He pulled back his tattered cloak, revealing the rusted holster at his hip. His skeletal fingers wrapped around the grip of his revolver, the old metal clicking as he drew it. The gun—an artifact from a world long forgotten—had seen better days, but its purpose remained unchanged.

He leveled the barrel at the boy’s head.

Somber tilted his eye downward, watching. No words were exchanged. The intent was understood.

“He cannot die, yes…

But what happens to me…?”

Celsius pulled the trigger.

A single gunshot rang through the clearing.

The bullet struck the boy’s forehead. There was no scream, no flinch, no reaction at all. For a fraction of a second, reality acknowledged what had happened. A hole was there. A wound. A moment of confirmation that the attack had landed.

And then—

Light.

A brilliant, overwhelming radiance exploded from the boy’s body, engulfing everything in its reach. It was not warm. It was not divine. It was simply undoing.

The wound vanished.

The bullet, now lodged deep in his skull, reversed its path, emerging from the skin as if time had spat it out. It dropped onto the grass, untouched by force or heat, as though it had never been fired at all.

The ground, once disturbed by the impact, smoothed itself over. The trees around them stood taller, healthier. The air became thick with an unnatural freshness, as though the concept of suffering itself had been erased from this place.

Celsius looked down at his own bony hand. His fingers, once darkened by the stain of undeath, shimmered for a brief moment. The energy touched him.

For the first time in centuries, his bones were white.

He felt it. A pull, a rejection.

Something deep within him twisted, a force trying to wrench him from his unnatural state—to heal him, to restore him. His very existence fought against it, as if the universe itself struggled to decide whether he should be cleansed or destroyed.

And then, it was over.

The boy sat there, just as he had before. Motionless. Silent.

Untouched.

Celsius flicked his revolver, spinning the chamber idly.

“Well,” he muttered. “That answers that.”

Somber was uncharacteristically quiet. His eye remained locked onto Celsius’s hand, watching as the temporary illusion of life faded, his bones returning to their usual stained hue.

“…I felt that,” the hat finally said. “For a second, you almost…”

“Yeah,” Celsius interrupted, holstering his gun. His grin, usually ever-present, wavered slightly. “I know.”

Somber didn’t push.

They simply sat there. Watching.

Waiting.

Celsius sat down on the grass, his bony frame settling into the unnatural vibrancy of the cursed land. The air smelled fresh, far too fresh. As if it had never known decay. His empty sockets lingered on the boy before him—no, the thing before him. Was he even a boy anymore? Could someone trapped in an existence like this still be called human?

For a moment, Celsius compared their fates.

"His pain is far greater than mine, y'know?"

Somber, perched atop his skull, did not speak. His large, singular eye narrowed slightly, staring down at the boy with an emotion he had no business showing. Empathy. A foolish sentiment. Something one should forget in the presence of an enemy.

…But could this boy be called that? An enemy?

Especially when his first and greatest foe… was himself?

Celsius exhaled, though he had no lungs to give breath to the sigh. The weight of something unspoken pressed against him. It was a sensation that should only belong to the living, yet even as a skeleton, cursed to exist beyond his time, he felt it gnaw at him. He shook it off.

And so, he waited.

After a long, necessary silence, Somber finally spoke. “So, what’s the plan? It’s not like he’s killable, right?”

“Yes,” Celsius admitted, his voice quieter than usual. “He is indeed unkillable. But that does not mean he is alive.”

The words left a strange tension in the air. Even Somber, usually the first to crack a joke, did not immediately reply. Celsius leaned back, resting on his hands, staring up at the sky before continuing.

“We will observe,” he said. “For a week, perhaps. Maybe less—I don’t have the patience for it. Then we will report his ‘death’—if we can even call it that—to the Goddess, alongside the defeat of Lust.”

Somber scoffed, his voice tinged with irritation. “Oh, yay! Can’t wait to see that bitch again.” There was venom in his words, a clear loathing despite her divine title. “Really looking forward to the next task and no reward!”

Celsius huffed a dry chuckle.

And so, the duo waited.

They sat in silence, staring at the boy, waiting to see if any reaction could be stirred from him. But it was futile. A pointless act, bearing no fruit.

Because in the end, the boy wasn’t alive.

He merely existed.