For those who know, this isn't something new. For those who don't, this is the beginning of their enlightenment.
At the dawn of creation, there was movement. The first action, born within the womb of eternal darkness, sparked a flicker of existence. From that spark, light emerged—an entity that fed upon the infinite void, expanding its reach, shaping the abyss into something new. Like a brush upon a black canvas, color and form began to take hold where once there was only emptiness.
Yet, there was nothing beyond the source of light. And as the source's own awareness deepened, it came to understand the weight of solitude. In that realization, life was born within it.
Since the first breath of existence, the source has evolved, giving rise to an ever-growing expanse—an intricate web of realms and universes, vast beyond comprehension. Within its core, spirits took form—entities woven from pure energy, thoughts, and concepts.
Each spirit embodies a unique essence, whether it is of creation or destruction, harmony or discord, light or shadow.
No two spirits are alike.
Though some emerge from the same fundamental idea, each is shaped by the circumstances of its birth—its environment, the forces that wove it into being, and the energy it received at its inception. Through them, the source seeks to understand itself, expanding its power and knowledge through the experiences of every individual soul.
Every spirit carries a story. None is greater or lesser than another, yet some leave an indelible mark upon existence. Their actions, choices, and achievements echo through the fabric of reality, setting them apart.
The source cherishes these stories. And among them is the tale of one such spirit—BD-370295719.
Born from the fragmentation of an 8th Sky spirit, BD-370295719 was but a sliver of the greater concept of ‘Control’. Its existence was unremarkable at first, a mere whisper in the grand symphony of creation. But after eight consecutive incarnations, its destiny shifted.
Through its choices and actions, this spirit would become instrumental in guiding the young human race toward an era of newfound evolution and limitless potential. Its monumental achievement—elevating an entire race—would etch its presence into the collective consciousness of the source, granting it something few spirits born from fragmentation achieve—independence.
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Foreign World: Fera 2
Exploration Mission: 3 days, 16 hours since deployment.
Two seasoned ten-man squads, accompanied by a junior team from Hosta Academy in Lamiere Kingdom, were sent to chart the unknown.
The battle came swift and brutal. Twelve regular units and four juniors from the assault team fought fiercely beneath the towering blades of luminous bluegrass. Victory came at a cost: one dead, seven wounded, one lost.
Unit Lost: Iskar. Age: 16. Rank: 1st in class. Specialty: Close combat. Record: 127 wins, 37 losses. Fragment: Control.
Current Status: Under treatment—Haszaurd Village.
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ISKAR
"Usud ar alrashy." (“You... good?”) The tahiby woman’s voice carried the weight of warmth and worry, her words a fragile bridge across our divide.
I forced my cracked lips to form the unfamiliar shapes:
"Na, arak usud?" (“Why help me?”)
Her reply came in soft words that I couldn’t understand:
"Nevas, usud ar ariky ushi." (“Never… you/we...”)
Never enemies?
My throat tightened. My head fell forward, and my eyes squeezed shut. I was no stranger to pain, but this… this was something else. I could kill in a hundred ways—but I couldn’t understand her words. And yet, her meaning was clear.
She set a simple wooden bowl down beside me and brushed her fingers through her long, silvered hair. Her four gray eyes, each holding a lifetime’s wisdom, met mine with an unspoken promise.
I am safe. That’s the feeling I got from her.
Nothing more needed to be said. I felt it—so raw, so radiant—her compassion bleeding into my bones. And something broke within me. A single tear escaped, hot and bitter, carving a path down my battle-worn cheek.
She reached out with her elongated hand, three slender fingers, and with the smallest, she wiped the tear away.
I felt their eyes then—the two younger women behind her—watching me with the gentle smiles of their elongated mouths, untouched by judgment or fear.
I tried to smile back, but it faltered. I felt too small. Too cold. Too undeserving of the warmth they offered so freely.
Would I have saved them if the tables were turned? If I had found them wounded, vulnerable? …No. Because I had been taught they were killers without reason. Because my superiors had lied.
A realization, sharp and undeniable, burned through me.
I have to stop this. I have to tell the others.
Pushing up, my body screamed in protest. The old woman’s hands pressed against my shoulders, urging me to rest. I refused. I would not rest. Not until this debt would be settled.
Kindness shown to me demands a return—tenfold, if not more. Just as blood debts weigh heavy, and moral bonds run deep, so too must gratitude echo with equal force.
So, I fell—deliberately—onto my knees.
They had healed the wounds I had made. They had offered me life when I had brought them only death. And I knew—no apology, no word, could repay them. But I could offer something greater than my strength, greater than my skill.
I could offer them my honor, and loyalty.
Hand to my chest, I bowed low—lower than a virean should—until my forehead met the cold stone floor.
"Usud," I whispered. ("You...")
A plea. A promise. A surrender.
"Na, na," the elder tahiby woman murmured, her voice rich with both sadness and affection. She reached down, and with surprising strength, she lifted me back up.
Her head turned to the curtain.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
Then, a sound—deep and primal—escaped her throat, a wordless call that sent the other two women racing from the room.
Outside, the air cracked with chaos—
“Summon, Great Abir!” a voice, familiar and frantic, roared from beyond the walls.
The earth trembled beneath an explosion’s wrath. The battle had found me once more.
The elder woman tried to push me back to the floor, but I caught her wrist, pressing her hand firmly against my chest—against my heart. I met her gaze—one pair of those timeless gray eyes—and let my heart speak what my broken words could not.
"I can’t express my feelings the way you do… but you must let me go. I want to stop the fools."
I didn’t know if she understood my plea, but her weathered hands steadied my trembling body and guided me toward the chaos outside.
The world beyond was a symphony of carnage.
Battle cries, the crackle of techniques, the roar of explosions—each sound crashed over me like a tidal wave. The air was thick with the stench of death and burning earth. I had survived countless fights, but this… this was different.
For the first time in years, I felt the chaos swallow me whole.
“Stop!” My [Pulse] surged—an instant burst of flux through my legs, propelling me forward. I intercepted just in time, my body crashing between Izaac’s blade and a terrified tahiby woman’s throat.
CLANG!
The steel met metal—Iskar’s armguard absorbing the blow. But the effort cost him. His knees buckled, and his body gave way, strength drained from his legs.
I lunged forward, seizing Izaac by the neck and shoulder—both to restrain him and keep myself from falling. But in that fleeting second—that sliver of time—something dark burned through me.
I wanted to kill him, was ready to do it. Then and there.
Right after, I saw it. Terror. A flicker in Izaac’s brown eyes—fragile, human, afraid. And it pulled me from the brink.
“Iskar?!” he gasped.
My voice tore from me—harsher, more commanding than ever before.
“Don’t you dare kill them!”
Then louder—louder than the screams, louder than the battle, louder than the madness, I cried:
“STOP! ALL OF YOU—STOP!”
But my voice felt small—pathetic against the chaos. My power, my authority—my worth—drowned beneath the slaughter. And with it, came a cold, suffocating wave of hopelessness.
I hadn’t felt this powerless since I was a child.
Then I saw him.
My survival class teacher, Samadiel. Cutting through the battlefield like death incarnate—his elbow scythe already drenched in the life stolen from another tahiby woman. And now—now—he was charging for the elder.
The one who had saved me.
“NO—!”
Every fiber of Iskar’s body ignited, muscles screaming as he unleashed another [Pulse]. His legs, his bones, his nerves—everything—cried out. But it was too little—too late.
SHHK!
The finger blade plunged deep.
The elder’s chest split open, her lifeblood—deep purple—spilled into the dirt. Her body, so warm with life moments before, crumpled.
Iskar hit the ground hard, tumbling until his battered form skidded to a stop. He couldn’t stand. His body was spent. His legs—useless.
But his voice—
His voice still had life.
“NO!” Iskar’s scream shredded through his throat, hard and broken. “They did nothing but defend themselves!”
His teacher’s eyes widened. “Iskar?” Disbelief cracked through his voice. “You’re alive?”
Iskar’s chest heaved, his voice thick with agony. “Why did you attack their settlement? WHY DO YOU KILL THEM?”
Samadiel’s expression darkened. “What are you saying, boy? What’s gotten into you?”
“They saved me!” Iskar’s voice cracked, tearing through his cords with every word. “They mended my wounds! They did that for me! STOP KILLING THEM!”
The teacher’s eyes sharpened with suspicion. “You’ve fallen for their trickery. They attacked us. We’re protecting our own—and the loot.”
Iskar’s body trembled, rage and sorrow burning beneath his skin. “Do you see any warriors here?”
A beat of silence.
The teacher’s gaze flickered, just for a second. “You’re gravely injured,” he said, as if to dismiss the truth. “Come. I’ll take you back to camp.”
The battle was dying—its final breaths drawn in scattered cries and lingering smoke. The ground, slick with blood, cradled the fallen. And in that ruin, Iskar saw it.
The truth.
Only five from the assault team had come. They hadn’t fought an army. They hadn’t been ambushed.
They had butchered a village.
His fists clenched, nails biting into his palms. His jaw locked as his teacher pulled him upright—
Then a voice—cold and triumphant—cut through the haze behind him.
“Finally.”
Iskar’s stomach turned to ice.
He twisted—just in time to see Izaac. Standing over the elder’s corpse. In his hands—
The statue.
Blue. Radiant. Stained with her blood.
“You came here for that, brother?” Iskar’s voice was strained, his battered body barely held upright by his teacher’s arm. His eyes, burning with disbelief, locked onto the bloodstained totem in Izaac’s grip.
“It’s against the kingdom’s laws to murder the innocent,” he rasped. “Against the accords to raid another realm’s settlements for their treasures.”
The weight of the slaughter pressed down on Iskar—the lifeless bodies, the purple-soaked earth. And he knew what had to be done. He would report everything to Christian, the prince of Lamiere—his closest friend.
The totem would be seized, and Izaac, along with the other four, would face justice. Especially since their victims—the ones they had butchered—were the very souls who had saved his life.
Izaac’s reply was cool, almost casual. “We came here for you, brother.” He tossed the totem lightly in his palm. “Acquiring this… was just a fortunate outcome.”
“Nonsense!” Iskar snapped with a scorn. “I see it now. That’s why we ventured beyond the mining field—because you were hunting for that artifact.”
Izaac’s eyes narrowed. “You think I had a say in this? Do I look like I control the assault team?”
Iskar’s gaze turned cold. “Of course you do. You’re the emperor’s nephew. You’ve been pulling strings since the academy—making teachers bend to your will.”
“Iskar!” Samadiel admonished.
Izaac’s lips curled into a smirk. “You saw the mural, didn’t you? You read what it said. If it’s true, this totem can purify our energy—can hasten our ascent through the Skies.” His voice quickened, laced with fervor. “Do you understand what that means, my dear colleague?”
But Iskar’s voice came like a sharp wind:
“It doesn’t matter what it does. You stole it. And you killed pure souls for it.”
Izaac’s expression darkened. “Are you… taking their side, brother?”