Within the six months that Liam lay in deep slumber after the devastating Green Calamity War, his consciousness was far from idle. Trapped within the vast and endless dominion of his own mind, he found himself face-to-face with Aesmirius—the being who resided within him. Ti in that realm flowed differently, and in those silent months of stillness, a journey of years unfolded within the confines of Liam’s ntal world.
During this ti, Aesmirius, who had long since learned to traverse the labyrinth of Liam’s essence, discovered sothing remarkable. Through the faint traces of residual myst left deep within Liam’s soul—echoes imprinted from both Marcus and Serah—Aesmirius gained access to fragnts of their mories. Past, intimate monts preserved by the mystical link of blood and energy that tied Liam to his parents. With this power, Aesmirius tore open the sealed vaults of the past and allowed Liam to behold what no one else could—the true lives of his father and mother.
Unlike Galen’s recounting of the tale—where he painted the story of Marcus and Serah through spoken words alone, leaving Mystica, Queen Lucy, and Magnus to weave their own ntal images—Liam saw it. He didn’t just hear their story; he lived it. Every heartbeat, every battle, every tender exchange, and every farewell—they unfolded before him in breathtaking clarity, as though he were standing right beside them.
But such enlightennt was not granted without price.
The act of witnessing mories that were not his own—echoes belonging to souls long gone—demanded imnse ntal fortitude. To peer into tilines that extended beyond his personal essence, Liam’s psyche had to ascend to a higher level of stability and strength. Should he fail to maintain that equilibrium, the backlash of such distant recollection could shatter his consciousness, casting his body into an endless, irreversible sleep within the real world.
Thus, before delving into those forbidden mories, Liam was forced to train under Aesmirius’s relentless guidance within the ever-shifting realm of the mind. Day by day, he battled illusions, conquered trials, and expanded his awareness until his mind beca a weapon of its own—a fortress of will capable of holding vast torrents of mory. Though only six months passed in the real world, within the domain of Aesmirius, ti stretched and warped. Liam endured and grew for what felt like three long years, forging ntal strength that far outpaced the years of his body.
By the ti his ntal age reached that of an eighteen or nineteen-year-old, Liam’s physical form remained that of a sixteen-year-old youth lying dormant in the mortal world. But within, his mind was sharper, colder, wiser—his spirit tempered by the fires of revelation.
When he had lived a year and a half within that mindscape—his mind now matured to that of a seventeen-year-old—Liam gained full access to the lives and mories of Marcus and Serah. He saw the paths they walked, their struggles, their sacrifices, and the love that bound them despite the storms of fate. Through those mories, he ca to understand not only their choices, but the weight of the blood that flowed through his veins.
Yet that was only the beginning.
As another year and a half passed in the domain, Aesmirius intensified Liam’s training. Their duels grew fiercer, their ditations deeper, and the ntal trials more punishing. For Aesmirius had planned sothing greater—a revelation beyond mortal mory. He intended to show Liam visions from his own existence, stretching back thousands of years, to eras long buried beneath ti’s eternal sands. But delving into mories that ancient ca with unimaginable risk. The deeper one reached into the stream of ti, the heavier the toll upon the mind. Even the smallest misstep could cause irreparable collapse, binding Liam’s consciousness within the Aether forever.
And so, for three long years in the tiless domain, Liam pushed himself beyond all limits. He tore down the walls of doubt, expanded the horizons of his ntal strength, and steeled himself for what lay beyond mortal comprehension. His resolve was iron, his will absolute.
At last, both he and Aesmirius stood convinced that he had reached the threshold—that Liam was finally strong enough to endure the recoil of the distant past. Together, they prepared to dive into the depths of ti itself, to uncover the truths buried in the echoes of eternity—hoping that, in doing so, Liam would not lose himself to the endless void and beco trapped forever within Aesmirius’s realm.
***
The air shimred and folded upon itself, the light bending like ripples in a lake before reality reford into sothing altogether different. The golden expanse of Aesmirius’s realm faded away, replaced by a quiet, dusty town. The sll of smoke, mud, and faint sweetness of freshly baked bread drifted through the air. Wooden stalls lined the narrow streets, and people moved about with sluggish ease—traders bartering, children running barefoot through puddles, old won gossiping by wells. It was humble, simple, alive.
Liam stood there in silence, boots pressing against the rough cobblestone road. Aesmirius floated beside him, his golden eyes calm as they both took in the sight. The colors of the world were slightly muted, like a mory being replayed.
"This place..." Aesmirius began, his voice echoing faintly with the distortion of ti. "This is Lorr—a small town that once existed within the realm of Oline. In your ti, it would be known as Amthar."
Liam slowly turned, scanning the scenery. The houses were simple, patched with straw roofs and worn timber. The townsfolk dressed in plain linen and leather, their accents strange and their energy far removed from anything he had known. Everything about the place—its sounds, its slls, its unhurried rhythm—felt foreign yet oddly grounding.
"Hard to believe this place ever turned into Amthar," Liam said quietly, eyes trailing the streets. "Looks like a museum’s fever dream."
Aesmirius didn’t respond, only kept his gaze forward, watching as the people of the past bustled around them, oblivious to their ghostly presence. Then, without a word, he pointed ahead.
"Look there."
Liam followed the gesture. On the side of the street, by a crumbling wall, sat a beggar—a man whose body seed more bone than flesh. His clothes were torn, his skin pale beneath the gri, and his hair—long, unkempt—hung around his face like a curtain of black. His eyes were dark, lifeless, as if the soul behind them had been drained dry.
At first, Liam’s brow furrowed. Then, realization struck him, and his lips parted slightly. "...That’s you."
"Indeed." Aesmirius’s tone was flat, unbothered, his expression unreadable.
Liam took another look, this ti from head to toe, studying the frail figure with detached interest. "Damn," he said at last, his voice deadpan. "You looked like a breadstick soone forgot in the rain."
Aesmirius’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. His golden eyes flickered toward Liam, irritation stirring beneath the calm surface. "Watch your tongue, boy."
Liam blinked at him, expression still straight. "What? I’m just saying... I didn’t know gods ca in the ’malnourished’ edition."
Aesmirius exhaled through his nose, the faintest twitch forming at the corner of his lip. "You’ve grown far too comfortable," he muttered. "Seems my influence in your mind has done more harm than good."
Liam only shrugged, unbothered.
Aesmirius ignored him and turned his attention back to the beggar version of himself. "In the early days of my life," he began, voice low and asured, "I was abandoned by my parents. Left to rot on the streets before I even knew their faces. Luck, or perhaps pity, found when a small family took in. They discovered during a storm—half-dead, shivering under the rain."
His words carried no sorrow, no warmth. Just recollection.
"They were simple people. Poor, but kind. They had little to offer, yet they gave what they could. It wasn’t much, but it was... peace. A brief mont of it."
Liam listened quietly, eyes following the mory as it unfolded. The young, frail Aesmirius smiled faintly in the past, sitting at a fire with a small family—two adults and a child—sharing a ager bowl of soup.
"But peace," Aesmirius continued, "never lasts."
The image shifted violently. The small cottage stood in chaos—blood sared across walls, the floor littered with bodies. The thieves moved quickly, stealing, destroying, burning. The air was thick with smoke and screams.
"When the thieves ca, they took everything," Aesmirius said coldly. "The family was slaughtered before my eyes. I was spared—not out of rcy, but mockery. I was so malnourished, so lifeless, they mistook for a corpse already halfway gone."
The young Aesmirius in the vision sat motionless amid the carnage, his thin arms wrapped around his knees, eyes blank as the flas consud his world.
"After that," he said, his tone as still as stone, "I lived in the streets. Begging for food. Scavenging from garbage piles. Ten years passed like that. Ten long years of hunger, filth, and silence."
Liam glanced at him sideways. "How the hell did you not die after all that?"
Aesmirius’s gaze hardened slightly. "Because I tried," he said simply. "Many tis. Starvation, blades, drowning—each attempt failed. I realized then that sothing far greater than I willed to live. The universe itself refused to let die. Fate... wanted alive."
Liam’s lips twitched, his tone completely deadpan. "Or maybe you just didn’t try hard enough. I an, looking like that, I’m pretty sure one good fall would’ve done the job."
Aesmirius turned to him sharply, eyes narrowing with irritation that nearly broke his composed façade. "You truly have developed a repulsive sense of humor."
"Thanks," Liam said flatly. "You’re the reason I got it."
Aesmirius sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, muttering sothing about "corrupted youth" under his breath. The air shimred again, the scene around them warping, bending into another mont of the past.
Now they stood in a crowded market square. The scent of spices, sweat, and smoke filled the air as rchants called out prices and children darted between stalls. Amid the chaos, a thin figure wove through the throng with unnerving precision.
It was the younger Aesmirius again—his eyes sharper now, his movents deliberate. His hands darted into pockets, snagging coins and bread before anyone could notice.
"He learned to adapt," Aesmirius said, arms folded. "When the body refuses to die, it learns to survive. I stole to live, but not rely for food. I began to observe—to study. People, movent, patterns, trade. I started to understand how everything connected."
Liam watched quietly as the boy version of Aesmirius slipped through the crowd like smoke, unseen and untouched.
"After a while," Aesmirius continued, "I realized I could no longer depend on others to heal . No doctor, no healer would treat —they all said I was cursed, incurable. But I knew better." His tone darkened slightly. "They were afraid of . They saw sothing they didn’t understand."
The boy Aesmirius pocketed a loaf of bread, glancing skyward with quiet defiance.
"So I turned to the only cure I could trust—knowledge."
He floated slowly above the mory, his voice lowering like the calm before a storm. "If no one could save , I would learn how to save myself. Knowledge beca my god, and I—its desperate servant."
Liam’s gaze lingered on the frail, dark-haired youth below. There was no pity in his expression—only understanding, perhaps faintly edged with curiosity.
"From a street rat to a seeker of forbidden truth," Liam muttered. "Guess everyone starts sowhere, huh?"
Aesmirius’s lips curved faintly, his irritation giving way to the ghost of a smirk. "Even gods must crawl before they ascend," he said. "And I crawled through hell itself."
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