Chapter 42: Man by the fountain

As Sylas and Livia strolled through the bustling streets of Valdenor, the morning sun cast a golden hue over the cobblestone roads. The air was crisp with the scent of fresh bread, roasting meats, and the faint fragrance of wildflowers from nearby market stalls. The kingdom was alive with its people—merchants calling out their wares, street performers dazzling with their tricks, and nobles gliding past in finely tailored cloaks.

Yet, amid the grandeur, one man stood out.

Near an old stone fountain, where clear water trickled down into a wide marble basin, a homeless man sat on a tattered cloth. His clothes were ragged, his face weathered, and yet, his presence was magnetic. He wasn't begging, nor did he seem desperate. Instead, he was speaking—his voice rich, deep, and deliberate.

A small crowd had gathered around him. Some stood with arms crossed, others listened with curiosity, and a few scoffed before walking away.

Sylas slowed his pace.

Livia followed his gaze and raised a brow. "Curious?"

He merely tilted his head, watching as the man gestured to the fountain beside him.

"Tell me, what does this fountain mean to you?" the old man asked, his gaze sweeping over the crowd.

"It's just a fountain," a merchant scoffed.

"Ah, but is it?" The man smiled. "Water flows endlessly, yet the fountain does not thirst. It gives without taking. Such is the nature of those who serve without question—yet, have you ever seen a fountain move? Has it ever left to seek more?"

Some murmured. Others frowned.

"A man who gives too much and never moves forward—he is no different than a fountain, stagnant, never drinking from the water he provides."

Livia hummed. "That's… poetic."

Sylas, however, watched in silence. His sharp gaze flickered with something unreadable.

The homeless man continued.

"And power?" He tapped the stone beneath him. "The kingdom stands strong, yes? Its walls high, its people fed, its streets filled with light and laughter."

There were murmurs of agreement.

"But tell me, what is power to you?" He turned to a nobleman in the crowd. "You, sir, dressed in fine silks. Is power in gold?"

The noble scoffed. "Obviously."

The man nodded, then turned to a blacksmith. "And you, sir, with soot on your hands. Is power in strength?"

The blacksmith smirked and flexed an arm. "Aye."

Then the man turned to a young boy, no older than ten. "And you, lad? What is power to you?"

The boy hesitated. Then, in a quiet voice, he said, "Knowing things."

The homeless man beamed. "Ah… wisdom."

Sylas narrowed his eyes slightly.

Wisdom.

"A fool with gold will squander it." The old man continued. "A strong man without wit will fight meaningless battles. A king without wisdom… will lose his crown before he even realizes it is gone."

Sylas exhaled through his nose, a whisper of amusement in his gaze. "He speaks well."

Livia studied him, curious. "You believe in wisdom over strength?"

Sylas smirked. "I believe a fool should not sit on a throne."

Livia rolled her eyes. "You say that as if you were once a king."

Sylas only chuckled.

The crowd around the homeless man grew larger, intrigued by his words. Some whispered among themselves. Others scoffed, unwilling to listen.

But Sylas?

He listened.

Wisdom Over Strength

Strength is immediate. It is seen, felt, and feared. A man who lifts a sword can cut down another with ease. A warrior who trains relentlessly will overpower those weaker than him. A kingdom with the largest army can march forward and take what it pleases. But strength, for all its might, is temporary. A strong man grows old. A warrior's body weakens. An empire that conquers without thought will crumble under the weight of its own ambition.

Wisdom, however—wisdom is eternal.

A wise man does not rush into battle because he understands that wars are not won by swords alone, but by strategy. A wise ruler does not rule with an iron fist, because he knows that fear breeds rebellion. A wise merchant does not hoard his wealth but invests, so that his riches grow beyond what his hands alone could gather.

Strength commands the present. Wisdom shapes the future.

Sylas leaned against the fountain, his sharp eyes lingering on the homeless philosopher, watching the way he wove his words like a master artisan weaving a tapestry. He had met many strong men in his lifetime—kings, generals, warlords, conquerors. Men who had built their legacies upon blood and steel, believing that sheer might would secure them an eternal place in history. Yet how many of them still had their crowns? How many of them remained victorious in the end?

He knew the answer all too well.

None.

Even he, Magnar the Conqueror, the King of Leon, had believed that power came from the sword. He had believed that if he fought hard enough, if he bled enough, if he crushed enough enemies beneath his heel, then he would be untouchable. Invincible.

He had been wrong.

His people had turned on him. The same hands that once clapped in admiration now reached for his throat. The soldiers who once marched under his banner turned their spears against him. And why?

Because strength alone was not enough.

A kingdom built upon conquest and domination would never last. A leader who relied solely on power would never be loved—only feared. And fear, as Sylas had learned in the most brutal way, was a fragile foundation.

The old man by the fountain continued speaking, his voice calm, yet filled with the weight of understanding.

"A lion may rule the jungle through strength alone, but what happens when the lion grows old? When the lion's teeth dull and its claws break? The jungle does not weep for it. The jungle does not remember its rule. It simply moves on. Strength fades, but wisdom? Wisdom lingers. It is passed down. It shapes generations. It outlives even the greatest kings."

Sylas smirked, shaking his head slightly. He had learned this lesson too late.

But perhaps, in this new life, he could do things differently.

Livia, standing beside him, glanced up, studying his expression.

"You're thinking about something," she mused.

Sylas chuckled. "I think about many things."

She narrowed her eyes. "But this? It's personal."

He sighed, tilting his head back to look at the sky. Personal? That was an understatement. It was everything.

After a long pause, he spoke. "Would you rather be strong, or wise?"

Livia raised a brow. "Why not both?"

A soft laugh escaped him. "Because people rarely have the luxury of both."

She crossed her arms. "Then I choose wisdom. Strength can be taken away, but knowledge stays with you until your last breath."

Sylas turned to her, his expression unreadable. He had chosen strength once. He had built his empire upon it. And it had led him to ruin.

Maybe now, in this life, he would choose differently.

The young man stepped forward hesitantly, his voice carrying the weight of youthful curiosity and existential dread.

"What happens after death?" he asked.

A hush fell over the gathered crowd, the murmuring voices fading into silence. It was a question that had haunted humanity since the first breath was drawn, a question that no scholar, no king, no prophet had ever answered definitively. And yet, it was asked again and again, as if the mere act of asking could unravel the secrets of the cosmos.

The homeless philosopher, seated beside the fountain, exhaled slowly, as though he had been waiting for this question all along. His weathered hands rested upon his knees, his aged eyes glinting with something neither hope nor despair—just understanding.

"Life, death, and rebirth," he began, his voice low yet powerful. "These are the Three Wheels. They turn, endlessly, without pause, without mercy, without exception. The cycle does not discriminate—it embraces kings and beggars, warriors and poets, saints and sinners alike."

Sylas leaned against the fountain, watching intently.

This was a truth he understood all too well. He had died, and he had awakened once more, cast into a new world, a new life. Was he the exception to this rule? Or had he simply been given awareness of what others did not remember?

"The body perishes," the philosopher continued, "but the self does not. Energy does not vanish—it transforms. A droplet of water in the ocean is never lost, merely carried away by the tide, returned to the sky, and brought back down as rain. So too does the soul flow through the current of existence, dissolving, reforming, changing, but never ceasing."

Some in the crowd exchanged glances, uncertain whether to believe him. Others nodded solemnly.

"In the East," the old man continued, "the sages call this Samsara. The wheel of existence. Life. Death. Rebirth. Again and again, until one sees beyond it."

Sylas frowned. Sees beyond it?

Livia, standing beside him, folded her arms. "So you're saying people live, die, and come back? Forever?"

The philosopher smiled. "Not forever. The wise say there is an end to the cycle."

Sylas's eyes darkened. "An end?"

"Yes," the old man nodded. "It is called Moksha, or Nirvana—the liberation from the cycle. Imagine a flame—so long as there is fuel, it burns. But when the fuel is exhausted, the flame does not die in agony—it simply ceases to be. Not in suffering, but in peace. The enlightened do not seek more lives, more deaths. They seek the stillness beyond both. A state where one is no longer tossed about by the storm, but becomes the sky itself."

Sylas exhaled through his nose, his mind whirring. That's not my fate, he thought. I still have too much to do.

"Most do not reach this state," the philosopher admitted. "Most remain bound to the wheel. Those who die with hatred, greed, or obsession return, drawn back by the weight of their desires. Those who live in ignorance stumble forward, unaware of their past selves, repeating the same mistakes, lifetime after lifetime."

Sylas scoffed. If that were true, then almost no one ever truly escapes.

"And what about you?" Sylas finally asked, his voice edged with something sharp. "Are you trying to break free from this wheel?"

The old man chuckled. "I am simply a man who remembers."

Sylas tensed.

A man who remembers.

Did that mean…?

The philosopher met his gaze, and for the briefest of moments, Sylas felt something pass between them. A knowing. A silent recognition.

Livia, oblivious to the unspoken exchange, tilted her head. "If people are reborn endlessly, then why don't we remember our past lives?"

The old man smiled. "Because memory is both a gift and a curse. Tell me, my lady—if a farmer plants a new field each spring, should he remember every blade of grass from the harvest before? Would that not burden him? What use is the past when each life is a new chance to grow?"

Livia frowned but said nothing.

Sylas, however, could not let it go so easily. "But if you did remember, wouldn't that make you stronger?"

"Perhaps," the philosopher admitted. "But also heavier. A river flows freely, but if it carries too much debris, it becomes clogged. A soul weighed down by too many lifetimes would be crushed beneath its own history."

Sylas clenched his jaw. Then why was I reborn with my memories intact? Why do I remember my past failures, my past regrets?

Had the cycle made an exception for him? Or was he cursed to wander existence as a ghost of his former self?

The philosopher watched him carefully, as if he could sense Sylas's turmoil.

"You are troubled, young one," he said gently.

Sylas did not reply.

The crowd around them had grown larger now, whispers moving through the people like wind through leaves. Some were intrigued, others skeptical. A few dismissed the old man's words entirely.

"Believe what you will," the philosopher said, standing slowly. "But know this—whether you see it or not, the wheel turns for us all."

He began to walk away, but as he passed Sylas, he murmured one last thing.

"And sometimes… it turns in unexpected ways."

Then he was gone.

Sylas remained standing beside the fountain, the sound of water trickling behind him. He looked down at his own hands, flexing them slowly.

He had lived. He had died. He had been reborn.

But why?

And if what the old man said was true—was he meant to break free? Or was he meant to stay bound to this cycle… forever?

| END OF VOLUME 2 |

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Author's note!

Hello everyone, thanks for sticking around this far, in my previous story, aka my first, I was pretty invested before I lost all motivation, mostly because I didn't have a clear goal with the WebNovel, but I have a clear goal for this one. Also, if you liked volume 1 and 2, leave a comment if you want :D

I'm a "bit of everything" kind of author, I have so many inspiration for this WebNovel, such as the journey to the west book, TBATE, one piece, the Cthulhu mythos, etc etc.

I'm not a big reader of romance so sorry if Sylas and Livia haven't kissed yet :<

Also, I feel like this story's title being abbreviated as "crown" would be better than "COAAR"

Anyways….Thanks for finishing volume 2!

End of author's note!