“We are but the echoes of those who came before us, bound to their choices, their struggles. The light they ignited can never be fully extinguished, but the darkness that remains will always seek to consume it. In the end, it is not power we fight for, but the chance to choose what we stand for, what we rise for, and what we will become.”
– Priest Elianus of the Holy Capital
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Prologue
It was a time of innocence and wonder, where the world stretched out before young Marth like an unexplored realm of possibilities. Nestled within the embrace of a quaint village, he was just a child of four, his eyes wide and inquisitive, his heart untainted by the complexities of the world.
In the comforting glow of candlelight, Marth, dressed in a white loose-fitting, long-sleeve shirt and a brown tunic over it, black pants, with dark brown hair and matching eyes sat cross-legged on the creaky wooden floor of their modest cottage. Beside him, his father, a rugged man with kind eyes and a clean well-kept face, dressed in similar attire as his son, cradled an ancient tome they had found in their basement in his weathered hands. It was a book that had seen centuries pass, filled with the whispers of history and forgotten tales. The old oak beams above them seemed to hold the secrets of generations, and Marth was eager to unlock them. His father's voice was a soothing lullaby as he began to read from the tome. Marth was captivated by the richness of the words and the vivid imagery they conjured.
"Once upon a time," his father began, "in an era long past, the world was a different place. A place of strife, where darkness threatened to consume all."
Marth’s eyes sparkled with curiosity, the names on the pages feeling like they held the weight of legends as he leaned closer, his small hands reaching out to touch the inked words. "Why did they fight, Papa?"
"They fought for power, my son," his father replied. "But not all sought power for darkness. Some fought to protect the ones they loved, to safeguard our world from the encroaching chaos."
Marth nodded, understanding dawning on his young face. He was drawn into the tale, entwined with the spirits of heroes and the struggles of a bygone era. His father continued.
"A millennia ago, the world was on the brink of catastrophe. The Enigma—an entity born of cosmic malevolence—descended upon the world, bringing with it an army of monstrosities. The land of Veridale fell first, overrun by twisted creatures that clawed their way through the kingdoms. At the heart of this destruction stood Numen Tower, the fortress of the Enigma, its dark power turning the land into a desolate, lifeless expanse. The world knew only one certainty: humanity was on the verge of extinction."
Marth’s eyes widened at the mention of the tower.
"It was in this darkest of hours," his father continued, "that the gods, seeing the desperation of the world, intervened. They sought out champions—heroes whose names would live forever. These champions were blessed with divine weapons, each a gift of unimaginable power, and together, they formed a party of five."
His father named the first hero.
"Ecstasy—the Savior, the fastest of them all, wielding a spear blessed by the gods themselves. With it, he could move faster than light, striking down enemies with unerring precision."
"And the second?" Marth asked, leaning in further, eager to hear more.
"Niveah—the Twin Blade. A master swordswoman who could move faster than the eye could follow. Her blades, enchanted to cut through any defense, were instruments of absolute destruction."
"Did they win?" Marth asked, breathlessly cutting off his father.
His father smiled softly, "Not so easily, son. They faced a battle like no other. The first true challenge came when they faced the Felled Titan, a beast resurrected by the Enigma’s magic. Its size—bigger than mountaintops—was beyond comprehension. The heroes met it on the battlefield outside Numen Tower, as its monstrous footsteps shook the earth beneath them."
Marth’s heart raced as he imagined the enormity of the battle. "What happened to the Titan?"
His father’s expression grew somber.
"Ecstasy and the others fought with everything they had, but the Titan was unstoppable. Its blows tore apart the very ground they stood upon. Thrain Drogir, The Warlord, dodged its crushing strikes, his movements like lightning. Niveah leapt to strike its legs, but her blades barely scratched its stone-like skin. The Titan kept healing itself, refusing to die."
"How did they defeat it?" Marth asked, his voice full of wonder and excitement.
"With Eryndor Rysgard’s power," his father explained. "Eryndor, The Grand Mage, unleashed a spell that shattered the Titan's form, a spell capable of erasing life itself. The Titan fell, but its death marked only the beginning of a greater terror."
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Marth gasped. "What happened next!?"
"After the Felled Titan was slain, the heroes advanced on Numen Tower," his father said, his tone heavy.
"But what they found inside was more terrifying than any creature they'd faced. As they climbed the tower's forsaken halls, they encountered a terror that went beyond the Enigma's army—something from an age long before. At the tower's pinnacle, one of the heroes—an old warrior who had fought in the Demon Wars—recognized the vessel that awaited them. It was no ordinary demon, but one of the five Demon Lords who had ravaged the lands during the wars. A figure whose name had been buried by time, his body resurrected and twisted into a puppet for the Enigma's will."
Marth leaned forward excitedly. "A Demon Lord! What happened to it father!?"
His father nodded gravely. "The Demon Lord, once a powerful force in the ancient wars, had been reanimated by the Enigma’s dark essence. The demon’s body—once the vessel of the Enigma—had been resurrected and turned into a puppet for the entity's will. It was no longer the demon it once was, but a vessel of darkness and corruption."
"Did the heroes fight it?" Marth asked, barely able to contain his excitement.
"They did," his father said, "and the battle was like nothing the world had seen before. The demon, now bound by Enigma’s will, fought with the strength of a hundred beasts. Its magic was fierce, warping the very walls of the tower as it clashed with the heroes. Arcane spells lit up the skies, and the earth itself shook with every blow. The demon’s power was unrelenting, but the hero party pushed forward, refusing to let the Enigma claim the world."
Marth’s eyes grew wide. "But... how did it end?"
His father paused, as though savoring the weight of the words. "The demon was slain, but its death was only the birth of something far worse. From its remains came Malice—a malformed creature of pure evil, born from a curse of the demon’s body, a manifestation of the Enigma’s wrath. It was unstoppable. It froze the very air around them, the heroes attempting to end its life quickly launched an assault. Fighting furiously with the might of the gods the heroes had no choice but to use a spell granted to them by the gods—a spell so powerful it could seal away even the greatest of evils. Eryndor and Ecstasy performed the sealing spell, locking Malice away in a tomb of divine light."
Marth leaned back, eyes wide with awe. "And they saved the world father?"
"They did, but at great cost," his father said quietly, his voice growing solemn. "Their efforts gave birth to the world we now live in. Though the Age of Discord has passed, its echoes are not gone. The heroes' deeds shaped the world, for better or for worse, and the future we live today was forged by their sacrifice and courage. The gods themselves bestowed upon them their blessings, but it was their will, their resilience, that carried humanity through the darkest of times."
He paused, as if weighing his words carefully. "Though the world may seem chaotic at times—unpredictable and full of strife—there is always something worth fighting for, something worth rising for. The sacrifices of those heroes remind us that we, too, must carry the torch of hope, no matter the odds. We must find our strength, and when the world grows heavy, we must remember the legacy of those who stood before us. For without them, there would be no world to defend, no future to reach for."
Marth fell silent, his mind racing with the possibilities. "I want to be like them," he whispered.
His father smiled softly, brushing a lock of hair from Marth's forehead. "One day, my son, perhaps you may be even greater."
As Marth’s father finished the tale, the warmth of his voice lingering in the room, he stood and gently lifted the boy, cradling him in his arms as if he were still the little child of earlier days. His father’s hands, rough yet comforting, carried him to his bed upstairs. The soft creak of the wooden steps beneath them was the only sound, aside from the occasional crackle from the lanterns on the walls.
Once in his room, his father tucked him in with a care that only a parent could give, smoothing the covers around Marth’s small frame. The boy’s eyes, still wide with wonder, stared up at the ceiling, searching for answers to the questions that swirled in his young mind.
With a soft smile, his father leaned down, brushing his son’s hair from his forehead. “Sleep well, Marth,” he murmured, his voice soothing, before pulling the lantern’s wick down to snuff out the light. The room was bathed in a soft, peaceful darkness, the only light coming from the dim glow of the moon peeking through the window.
His father stood at the door for a moment, watching his son with a loving gaze before closing the door with a soft click.
Marth lay still in the comforting darkness, his small body sinking into the warmth of the blankets, but his mind remained alive with the tales of the heroes. Could he ever be like them? Sleep didn’t come. His mind was alive, racing with the images of the Age of Discord—the great battles, the heroes who had fought so bravely, and the vast world that lay beyond his village. The story had taken root in him, sparking a fire in his chest that would not be easily extinguished. He turned his head toward the window, eyes fixated on the peaceful view outside.
The lush green fields stretched far beyond the horizon, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight. Hills rose in the distance, dotted with the silhouettes of trees and the outline of the forest that marked the edge of the world he knew. The stillness of the night seemed to call out to him, the quietude of the village at odds with the restless energy that stirred inside him. His mind wandered to the heroes of the tale—their triumphs, their struggles, and their unwavering resolve. If they could rise from the chaos to shape the world, perhaps he could too. He wanted to know what it felt like to fight for something greater, to wield magic as they did, to forge his path among the stars. His home, his village, was peaceful, serene—but Marth knew there was more, a greater journey waiting beyond. A future that was yet to be written, but one that would demand his will to be etched into the world.
He lay there, staring out into the still night, feeling the weight of the story in his heart. His thoughts wandered to the hero party—their trials, their strength, and their unwavering will. He wanted to be like them, to wield magic as they had, to face challenges with the courage that they had shown. The world had changed, but the legacy of the Great Hero Party lived on in his heart, fueling his desire to become part of something greater.
His thoughts swirled with possibilities as his eyelids grew heavy. The promise of magic, of adventure, of becoming a hero, settled in his chest like a seed ready to grow. The night held him in its calm embrace, and slowly, despite the excitement in his heart, sleep finally crept in, pulling him under with the soft rhythm of his father’s story still echoing in his mind.
And so, the boy drifted off, the echoes of the story, the hope of a greater future, and the dream of becoming more than he ever thought possible, guiding him into a peaceful rest.