The warmth remained.
That became another pattern.
Whenever the gray light filled the sky, the warmth remained.
Whenever darkness swallowed the battlefield, the warmth remained.
Whenever the cold wind swept across the endless sea of still shapes, the warmth remained.
The creature breathed.
Rise.
Fall.
Rise.
Fall.
The rhythm never stopped.
The infant listened to it constantly.
Not intentionally.
The sound simply existed.
Like the sky.
Like the cold.
Like hunger.
Like the ache that returned each time the dark liquid ceased flowing from the creature's wounds.
Patterns.
The world was becoming patterns.
The infant awoke.
The warmth remained.
The creature remained.
Its golden eye remained half-open.
Watching.
Always watching.
The infant stared back.
The eye blinked.
He blinked.
Another pattern.
One that repeated often.
Though neither understood why.
Days passed.
Or perhaps months.
Time meant nothing.
Only repetition existed.
The creature breathed.
The infant fed.
The sky brightened.
The sky darkened.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The infant had grown.
Not enough to understand.
Not enough to think.
But enough to move.
His limbs were stronger now.
His crawling steadier.
His balance better.
The battlefield around the creature slowly expanded.
Each day he ventured slightly farther.
Each day he returned.
Always returning.
The warmth remained the center of his world.
One day, while exploring nearby, something sharp touched his hand.
The pain came instantly.
A bright burst.
Sudden.
Violent.
The infant froze.
His entire body tensed.
The sensation was unlike hunger.
Unlike cold.
Unlike exhaustion.
It was immediate.
His hand recoiled instinctively.
A small sound escaped his mouth.
Not a cry.
Not yet.
Shock.
Pure instinctive shock.
The object lay partially buried in the earth.
A broken blade.
Its edge remained sharp despite the years.
The infant stared at it.
Then at his hand.
Something wet slid across his skin.
Dark red.
Warm.
Moving.
The infant watched.
The liquid emerged from his own flesh.
Not the creature's.
His.
The tiny cut continued bleeding.
A thin line of crimson tracing across his skin.
The infant stared.
The battlefield seemed to fall silent.
Something important had changed.
He knew this liquid.
Not through thought.
Through repetition.
He had seen it countless times.
The creature's wounds.
The scattered bodies.
The battlefield itself.
The dark liquid existed everywhere.
Yet now
It emerged from him.
The infant touched it.
His fingers trembled slightly.
The warm liquid coated them.
Exactly the same.
The scent was the same.
The color was the same.
The texture was the same.
Pattern.
Recognition.
Connection.
For perhaps the first time since birth
Something linked him to the world around him.
Not emotionally.
Not intellectually.
Instinctively.
The red inside them existed inside him.
The realization changed nothing.
And yet everything.
The cut continued to sting.
Pain.
Another new discovery.
The sensation lingered.
Even after the bleeding slowed.
Even after the wound closed.
The memory remained.
Pain came from damage.
Damage caused blood.
Blood came from inside.
Another pattern.
Another truth.
The infant returned to the creature.
The warmth welcomed him.
The breathing continued.
Rise.
Fall.
Rise.
Fall.
Except...
Something felt different.
The infant tilted his head slightly.
Watching.
Listening.
The rhythm had changed.
Only a little.
Almost imperceptibly.
But different.
Rise.
Pause.
Fall.
Longer pause.
Rise.
Fall.
The breathing was slower.
The golden eye remained clouded.
The wounds looked deeper.
The dark liquid flowed less frequently now.
The creature moved less.
Blinking required effort.
Even opening its eye seemed difficult.
The infant did not understand.
He simply observed.
The pattern was changing.
Days passed.
The change continued.
The creature slept longer.
Moved less.
Breathed slower.
The infant found himself watching more often.
Less interested in the battlefield.
More interested in the rhythm.
Watching.
Waiting.
Listening.
One evening, as darkness spread across the battlefield, the creature's eye opened fully.
More fully than it had in a long time.
The golden iris focused on him.
Clear.
Sharp.
Present.
The infant stared back.
Neither moved.
The battlefield remained silent.
Then, very slowly, the creature shifted.
Its massive head moved.
Only slightly.
Only enough to rest closer to where the infant sat.
The movement exhausted it immediately.
Its breathing became ragged.
Weak.
Painful.
The infant reached out.
His small hand touched warm fur.
The creature remained still.
The warmth remained.
The breathing remained.
The eye remained.
But the pattern was changing.
And somewhere deep within the growing awareness of the child, something began noticing that some patterns did not last forever.
That night, the infant slept beside the creature once more.
Listening.
Rise.
Fall.
Rise.
Fall.
Long pause.
Rise.
The battlefield watched silently.
And for the first time since his birth, Reige stood unknowingly at the edge of a discovery that would change his understanding of existence itself.