Every few centuries the kingdom of Vorthe goes through great changes. An ancient darkness that resides a few thousand miles away from the capital city of Farryn comes alive. Wails could be heard in all directions, like the cries of damned souls trying to claw their way out of hell. Every city, every town, and settlement for thousands of miles will know no peace during these times.

Those who are weak-willed: the children and even some adults find their nightmares come alive to haunt them. Many lose their will to live, and their lives. Whole villages and settlements...wiped out by some unseen fiend.

“Or at least that's what the folktales say,” the blind man stopped his story, rising from his spot to walk away from the mob of children yapping at him to continue or tell them another.

“Do you think we can hit him this time around?” inquired Doti.

Four friends huddled together at the back of the crowd of kids speaking in whispers.

“We'd never know until we try,” Jerome responded.

They all looked toward the blind man as he walked away in his worn-out hooded gray cloak, tapping his walking stick on the cobbled stone from side to side. Anyone seeing the blind man for the first time would think him harmless, but these kids knew better.

“Which will make this our thirty-fourth trial,” Dreamer chipped in. He'd been keeping a record of their failed attempts to land a hit on the blind man.

“Why is it so hard to hit one blind old man?” Whistle grumbled.

“He's not old, and he used to be an expert sacred artist!” Jerome snapped. “Stop complaining and follow the plan.”

All four friends silently followed the blind storyteller through narrow streets and dark alleys, closing in as they went farther away from their orphanage. And when they were a few hundred steps away, they attacked.

Jerome and Whistle came in hot from the blind man's front and rear, while Doti and Dreamer dove in from his sides as they aimed to take his stick from him and grab his left leg respectively.

They would have succeeded, but in the split second, before they latched onto him, the blind man said two words,

“Too slow.”

~~~

Rihal had always been fond of the games the orphans played and often looked forward to them. They gang up on him to try and take him down to prove themselves as men.

If only that was all it took to be a man, he thought to himself and sighed inwardly. Just before one of the kids could grab his walking stick, he said, “too slow.”

He smacked the kid in the head, sent him flying, and danced around the rest of them.

He’d never truly tried to learn their names so he just called them whatever comes to mind. Not that it mattered because none of them have real names. Except for one. Jerome. His mission, and the reason why he visits the slums every day.

This kid was a reminder of what it’s like to have a real name in this world where words have power, and names even more so. Jerome's attack and reaction speed were getting better and better every time they sparred — if you could call it a spar. It was always more like a one-sided beating.

Rihal watched the kid stop himself right before he barreled into button head — Rihal's current name for Whistle — flipped into the air, and spun around while he threw some makeshift knives at him.

Rihal reached into himself and cycled his essence. Then he blasted out a tiny amount of it like a pulse to knock off the knives mid-air, and at the same time knock out the tricky bastards who were trying to use him to sharpen their skills. They all passed out from the pulse of essence except for Jerome.

“Will you teach me to do that?” Jerome asked as he landed behind Whistle who was sprawled unconscious on the ground.

“Naturally, you’d learn,” Rihal said. “When do you turn twelve?”

“In ten days,” Jerome said, his eyes lighting up with expectation and eagerness. In ten days time he’d join the ranks of people who could wield essence in the world.

“Oh.”

"Is it true?" Jerome asked.

"Is what true?"

“Your story.”

Rihal stared at the kid for a while before answering, “Every story has a grain of truth in them.”

Jerome nodded to this answer, his face solemn. It made sense. Myths weren’t spun out of thin air. There was always a foundation of truth to them, no matter how far-fetched. Mix in a storyteller’s vibrant imagination and you have an epic that would pass down from generation to generation.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“You didn’t pass out this time like your friends. You’ve come a long way.”

"Well, of course. I have a name."

“Not really the reason,” Rihal responded as he walked off. Those your age who have names still pass out. But you’ve got something more, Rihal thought.

~~~

Jerome tilted his head with a questioning look on his face as he watched the blind man walk away but he didn’t bother asking what he meant.

Essence! Jerome thought to himself as he clenched his fists, determined to become a powerful sacred artist in this world. To not be weak and looked down on as he was in his previous life!

Jerome had been in this world for almost twelve years now, and he'd been acutely self-aware throughout all of it. He remembered when he was born, his mother's fleeting presence and receding vitality after she Named him and died soon after. This left an indelible mark on Jerome's soul.

He was very much aware that the blind storyteller was the one who delivered him to the orphanage. But the question no one can give him an answer to is how? How did it all happen?

Reincarnation…? Transmigration…? Now how does one explain that?

During his previous life, he lived on earth for a grueling sixty years. From the moment he was born, he was afflicted with a terminal illness that ravaged his body, leaving him weak and in constant pain. His name in that life was Isaac, and his existence was a living nightmare. Isaac spent his days in and out of hospitals, enduring endless tests and treatments, all in a futile attempt to ease his suffering.

But no matter how hard he fought, his condition only worsened with each passing day. Isaac's life was defined by the unrelenting agony that consumed him, leaving him with little hope for a brighter future. Following his previous life's painful demise, he found himself awakening in the arms of a stunning woman. Her delicate features exuded a sense of serenity that Jerome had never known before.

The woman whispered sweet nothings as she cradled him, her voice a soothing balm to his confused and disorientated mind. As the hazy memories of his past life slowly receded, the woman's words became clearer until he could finally hear her voice.

“She poured her soul into naming you,” the blind Rihal would always say whenever they were alone.

Jerome never got tired of listening to the story of how his mother Named him. Even though he'd heard it many times before, he still found it fascinating. However, Rihal never provided any additional details beyond those words, no matter how many times Jerome asked him to elaborate.

Jerome's unique situation of being an adult in a child's body constantly astonished the caregivers at the orphanage, including Rihal, who visited occasionally to entertain the children with stories. His exceptional intellect and remarkable capacity to acquire knowledge at a rapid pace made him stand out among his peers, and occasionally gave people a sense of unease.

It was almost as if he could absorb information effortlessly, like a sponge absorbing water, to a degree that bordered on being unsettling. On numerous occasions, Jerome attempted to behave like a typical child to avoid arousing suspicion. However, such charade felt as though he was donning a disguise, a mask that never quite fit.

“People will only assume I'm a gifted child,” he would ponder to himself in moments of frustration. And indeed, that's precisely what those around him believed him to be.

Jerome's ability to absorb knowledge quickly was aided by Rihal, who visited the orphanage from time to time to impart knowledge. It was under Rihal's guidance that Jerome learned how to read and write — knowledge which he also passed unto his brothers and sisters at the orphanage.

Even though Rihal was blind, he would use his stick to write characters in the soil for Jerome to learn. Through Rihal's teachings, Jerome learned about the world he lived in. He discovered that it was a martial world, where the strong preyed on the weak. It was a harsh reality that Jerome quickly came to terms with. In this world, power was the ultimate currency. It's not just about wealth and economic status, but also about one's mental and physical strength.

Thankfully, Jerome grasped this concept at a young age and had been dedicating himself to self-improvement ever since. He not only did so to avoid being bullied but because he never had the chance to do it in his previous life — his body being weak and all. Being able to use his limbs like a normal human was exhilarating. Being able to run and have fun without pains, without falling over from weakness and nausea was a dream come through.

At the young age of six, Jerome established a strict workout regimen for himself, and he had diligently followed it for the past six years. As per Rihal's teachings, the purity of one's blood and physique determined their ability to absorb the essence of the world.

The laws that govern this world were different from those of his previous world. Here, humans were capable of absorbing essence—the energy that permeates the world—when they reached puberty. However, some individuals possess greater aptitude than others and are able to absorb essence at a much faster rate, allowing them to grow exponentially powerful.

The essence that humans could absorb in this world endowed them with exceptional abilities to manipulate their surroundings. They could harness the power of the elements for daily purposes or for engaging in combat with one another.

“Mankind craves power,” Rihal once said, “But how one wields that power determines their Path in life. A Path is a fundamental aspect of a sacred artist’s existence. As one progresses on their martial journey, they reach a crossroads where they must choose a Path...or multiple Paths.

“Some sacred artists can handle more than one Path, of course, depending on how much they comprehend the Path they walk. To fully comprehend the different elements and forces, one must delve into their essence.

“Earth, water, fire, wind, metal that lies within the earth, and wood that sprouts from it — these are the foundations of creation. With a strong foundation and understanding of these elements, one can grasp up to four of them in an early Realm, and eventually attain mastery over all.”

“It’s better to work on one to perfection, though, to give you mastery over a particular element. As for the Forces in the world I’m only familiar with two of them,” Rihal explained. “Lightning and Sword Force.

“Lightning is perhaps the most dangerous force to comprehend in this world. From what I know, one has to absorb a lightning bolt into his or her body to comprehend the Force of Lightning.

“Either that or a fortunate encounter. If one is not careful, it could mean death. Or worse, the destruction of one’s foundation. But that’s never stopped sacred artists from trying.

“Sword Force is more common among artists of my Realm. It entails comprehending the edge of the blade to form Sword Aura. The deeper one’s comprehension is, the more profound one’s Sword Aura is, which will lead to better use of Sword Force.

“There are also forces like Light and Darkness, but I don't know much about them,” Rihal explained.

Jerome assimilated every word and concept, processing them with contemplative deliberation. Rihal’s teachings were not beyond his grasp, and in truth, his understanding may surpass that of his mentor.

However, he chose to keep this knowledge to himself, silently pondering the mysteries of the universe.