Book 1: Origin

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 Rihal 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, Jerome?” Doti asked, his bushy brows creasing together.

Jerome and his three friends sat huddled at the back of the crowd of kids speaking in whispers. Did he think they could hit him? Not a chance in the world. But that wouldn’t stop him from trying. “We’d never know until we try,” he said.

They all looked toward the blind man as he walked away in his worn-out hooded gray cloak, tapping his walking stick on the dirt track from side to side. Anyone seeing the blind man for the first time would think him harmless, but Jerome knew better. They all did. The little smacks they got from that walking stick anytime they sparred were a testament to Rihal’s sharp senses.

“Which will make this our thirty-fourth trial,” Dreamer chimed 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, his round head looking like it would suddenly fall off as it was being supported by a bony frame. Well, they all had bony frames.

Jerome glared at him. The dirty mop of black hair on Whistle’s round head made him look like a scarecrow. All he needed was the hat to go with it. “He’s not old, and he used to be an expert sacred artist!” he snapped. “Stop complaining and follow the plan.”

Yes, it was hard, he knew this. But complaining about it wasn’t going to change anything. He expected such complaints from Doti instead.

Jerome silently led them through narrow streets and dark alleys. As they closed in on the blind storyteller, he directed them to surround him. He made sure they moved in his blind spot, and as silently as possible. The lull that the slums always witness on hot afternoons like this made it very difficult though. Slummers usually take long breaks during this time to preserve their strength, which in turn reduced activities around the slums and made it harder to be stealthy.

They had gone farther away from their orphanage now that they couldn’t hear the voices of the children anymore. 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 Rihal 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 chuckled inwardly.

Just before one of the urchins could grab his walking stick, he said, “Too slow.” He flicked his wrist and smacked the boy in the head with the walking stick, sending him flying. And then danced around the rest of them.

He’d never truly learned their names so he just called them whatever came 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 boy 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 little brat 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 a tenday,” Jerome said.

Rihal saw the boy’s sunken eyes light up with expectation and eagerness. In a tenday, he’d join the ranks of people who could wield essence in the world. “Huh. That soon? You’re growing up fast.”

Time did fly by quickly. Too quickly in fact. The little baby he had brought to the orphanage was all grown up.

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“Is it true?” Jerome asked.

“Is what true?”

“Your story.”

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

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 be passed down from generation to generation.

“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, he thought.

~~~

Jerome tilted his head with his brows creased in curiosity as he watched the blind man walk away but he didn’t bother asking what he meant.

Essence! he thought to himself as he clenched his fists. “Just ten more days.” Ten more days and he’d join the ranks of sacred artists in the world.

“Hrgmm,” one of his friends snored.

“Are you kidding me,” he said, sighing. How the hell was he going to get them all back to the orphanage? No way he was going to carry any of them. “Hey, Whisper, get up! Doti! Dreamer! Get up!” he kicked them in the ass as he called their names.

“Did we get him this time?” Doti asked lazily as he struggled to stand up, his malnourished frame was barely able to keep him up.

“No, but we almost did,” Jerome said, trying to sound encouraging.

Whistle snorted, “We’ll never do it. It’s impossible.”

“Don’t say it’s impossible,” Jerome replied.

“Yea, Whistle. We can get him,” Dreamer said, standing up.

“I hate when he does that. It makes me grojy,” Whistle said.

“Hmm.” the rest of them chorused, bobbing their heads up and down in agreement — except for Jerome.

Jerome chuckled. “It’s not ‘grojy’, Whistle. It’s groggy. Come on, let’s go home.”

“Hmm-hmm,” Whistle hummed. “Still makes me feel not comfortable.”

“You think we’ll be able to do that when we become sacred artists?” Dreamer asked.

“Of course, we will,” Jerome quickly said. Among his three friends, Dreamer was the one with the most positive outlook on life. He was an optimist at heart. Should he tell the kid that not many people would become capable of wielding essence as an extension of themselves? It may just fly over his head. Or it may discourage him. Jerome shut his mouth, deciding to wait till they had gone through the initiation to become sacred artists.

They all shuffled along, dragging themselves back to the orphanage they called home. They hadn’t spent a lot of time trying to take down the blind man but they were dead tired. The lack of proper, consistent diets had taken a toll on them since childhood. Their caretakers did everything to keep them fed but there were a lot of mouths to feed in the orphanage.

“What’d you think Ms. Tara will cook this eve?” Dreamer asked, his eyes looking into the distance.

“Oh, oh! I know, I know!” Doti exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Potato soup!”

The other two boys turned to Jerome to find out if Doti was right. To which Jerome just shrugged.

“What do you mean by—?” Whisper asked, shrugging to mimic Jerome.

“It means I don’t know what Ms. Tara’s going to cook,” Jerome said. “Well, maybe if you all had waited this morning to help out in the backyard, you may have found out.”

They argued and laughed as they neared the orphanage, taking shortcuts and avoiding people they had wronged the morning before they came out to play. As they got close to the orphanage, the boys absentmindedly increased their walking speed. Soon, they turned a corner and faced the building in the distance.

The orphanage was a decrepit structure; the mud walls were a bleached white, stripped of any vibrancy they may have once possessed, and marked by stains that would never come off. It was the only structure made out of stone and mud that they knew of in the slums — a neglected structure situated in the heart of the slums in the capital city of Farryn, and devoid of any official name. Despite its squalid conditions, it was home to twenty-five children who had been abandoned by society.

The ever-present stench of pee and shit graced the dirt track of the slums. Knee-high stains of piss could be seen on the wooden walls of every building they passed by, the stench coming from them, almost suffocating. Though, the kids had gotten used to it now. The stench was simply there, at the back of their minds, like an annoying gnat.

In front of the structure were some children Jerome and his friends called siblings, all dressed in rags and skinny with protruding bones. They were playing a game he had taught them to keep them busy. Children were a curious lot, and their caretakers didn’t have all the time in the world to look after all twenty-five of them. Even when they were being looked after, Ash and some of the nameless kids would still find ways to slip away.

Jerome smiled and then he chuckled. He was guilty of that too. This life came as a surprise to him. Waking up to a new world and to new sensations, to a new way of doing things. It was not the kind of life he lived before, not what he would have asked for if given the opportunity to choose, but it was the one he got. And he loved it. Jerome chuckled again. Reincarnation…? Transmigration…? Now how does one explain that?

“Ah, I see Jerome is excited for the meal. Yet he won’t tell us what Ms. Tara’s making,” Dreamer said.

“C’mon, Jerome. Tell us.”

“Yes, please. Tell us.”

They looked eagerly at him, their faces unable to hide their curiosity.

“Do you really wanna know?” he asked his friends and they bobbed their heads in response. Jerome couldn’t for the life of him figure out how he got to be friends with such innocent kids.

He 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 had left an indelible mark on Jerome’s soul.

“I’ll tell you if you promise to help me wash the dishes before bed tonight,” Jerome said and they grumbled their assent, eager to know what it was they were going to be eating tonight. Doti’s stomach even growled as if it was ready for a treat.

“It’s not potato soup,” Jerome said and his friends sighed in disappointment. If it wasn’t potato soup, it was going to be lizards or bugs. They hated bugs. Rats were better. They had a little more flesh but they fought back — viciously — and could bite you. Which could cause sickness. And there was no health care for the children of the orphanage. They made do with whatever they had.

“Do we have any leftover rats?” Doti asked.

“No. We’re eating bugs.”

They all grumbled at Jerome’s words to which he chuckled.