Chapter 2: Hero seed

I woke up in a familiar white void, but this time, I wasn’t alone. In front of me was a newborn baby, lying still. I tried to shout to it, but no sound came out.

"Huh? Why can’t I move?"

I wondered, confused. Then it hit me—of course I couldn’t move. In this state, I had no "body". I'm currently in Astral form, also known as Spirit form. This is a state where my consciousness exists separate from my physical body. In this form, I have no tangible body, no weight, and no ability to physically interact with the world around me. It's like being a thought given shape, a presence that can observe but not touch. Without a body, I couldn’t move. As I struggled with my helplessness, a shadow appeared above the baby.

“Drita hath bound me in torment for uncounted ages. The hour hath come for mine return, to reclaim that which was stolen from mine grasp,”

said a deep, angry voice.

The shadowy figure loomed over the baby, its presence heavy and menacing, as if it could pierce through every thought in my mind. Then, it shifted its gaze toward me. A sudden chill ran through me, sharp and icy, as if the void itself was collapsing around my existence. The weight of its attention was unbearable, pressing down like an invisible hand crushing my very essence. I wanted to recoil, to escape, but without a body, I was utterly defenseless against the suffocating cold.

“Thou art not of this realm; how hath thee found thy way into mine domain?” he asked.

I didn’t answer, pretending not to hear, see, or know anything at all. But it seemed he didn’t need me to. He continued,

“Didst thou truly believe I wouldst not discern thy presence? I shall reclaim the realm that Drita hath usurped from mine dominion.”

Before I could react, the shadow enveloped the baby. But from the tiny body, a brilliant light erupted, forcing him back. A serene voice rang out:

“Irett, thou shalt not return to this realm.”

The light faded, revealing a woman with long, platinum hair. She turned to me and said,

“I do entrust unto thee the seed of a hero.”

As she dissolved into shimmering particles, leaving behind a teardrop-shaped crystal, Drita turned back toward me one last time. With a swift motion, she pulled my formless presence closer to her and, with surprising strength, cast me into the newborn child below.

Irett staggered backward, his shadow contorted in fury, and a growl escaped from the void.

“Drita, thou hast meddled in matters beyond thy right for far too long! Thy light shall not forever prevail, and thy chosen ones shalt crumble before me!”

His words dripped with venom as the dark tendrils writhed around him, consuming everything in their reach. The white void began to change, its shapeless vastness trembling as if it was quished by an invisible hand. The darkness pulled inward, twisting upon itself, while faint, cold flashes of pale light flickered erratically. The air thickened with a crushing energy that bore down on me, as if the surrounding space was bending and breaking apart under Irett’s wrath. All of sudden, his gaze turned once more toward me. A cold dread surged through my very essence, my vision blurring as though the void itself had tightened its grip. The world around me seemed to dissolve, colors and shapes fading into formless shadows. Faint echoes of Irett’s enraged screams echoed through the void, growing softer and more distant, yet still carrying the weight of his anger, as though his fury refused to fade even as his shadow disappeared into the abyss. Slowly, everything faded to darkness, and my sight was swallowed entirely by the void.

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“Gwahaha! Good morning, kids!”

An old man greeted the children with his booming voice.

"Ah! Old Grewe is here! Old Grewe is here!" The children shouted excitedly, running to greet him. Old Grewe, a seasoned herbalist of the Ruin Archipelago, spent his mornings in the village square selling herbs. His cart was always brimming with fragrant bundles of rare plants he carefully gathered from the wild forests surrounding the island. Despite his many years, his energy seemed endless, his booming laughter often echoing through the streets. Beloved by the villagers, Old Grewe had a gift for weaving stories. Every day, after he finished his work, he would gather the children to share enchanting tales of gods, legendary heroes, and the dark forces lurking in the shadows of their world.

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Old Grewe leaned back in his wooden chair, the firelight flickering across his weathered face. Around him, children sat cross-legged on the floor, their eyes wide with wonder as they clutched wooden swords and toy shields. The elder’s voice, deep and warm, filled the small village hall.

“Long ago,” he began,

“before even time itself existed, there was only endless darkness. But then, Yosua, the Supreme Being, decided to divide His body to create the gods who would govern our universe.”

The children leaned forward as Old Grewe continued, his voice weaving the tale like a tapestry.

“He split Himself into three parts, giving life to three great beings: Zeit, the god of Time and Space; Drita, the goddess of Light and Life; and Irett, the lord of Darkness and Chaos. Each one carried a piece of His power to shape the world.”

He wave his hands in the air, as if he was crafting the story right before their eyes.

“Zeit spun the threads of time and space, creating the fabric of the universe. Drita, glowing with golden light, brought forth the sun and breathed life into the land. And Irett, filled with the spirit of chaos, sought to unmake it all.”

“What....what happened then, old Grewe?” a boy whispered,

his voice shaky as he clutched his wooden sword tightly, the tip trembling slightly as if even the thought of Irett’s chaos was too much to bear.

Grewe’s expression darkened, he gently rested his hand on the boy's head, offering a moment of comfort amidst the growing tension, his tone somber.

“Together, the three gods crafted the first world—land, sea, sky, and all living creatures. Yet, while Drita cherished humanity and blessed it with her gifts, Irett viewed the perfection of this world as a grave imbalance. To restore what he deemed fairness, Irett conjured his seven sinister servants, manifestations of the primal sins, to sow chaos and darkness upon the land.”

The children gasped, their toy swords clattering to the floor as they instinctively huddled closer together. Their wide eyes darted between each other, fear etched into their young faces, as Old Grewe described Irett’s creation of dark creatures and his seven sinister servants. The flickering firelight seemed to stretch their shadows unnaturally across the walls, making the story feel uncomfortably real.

“Luxa, the manifestation of Lust, took the form of a mesmerizing specter with eyes that drew mortals into an endless trance, leading them to ruin.

Gula, Gluttony personified, was a monstrous entity with an insatiable maw, devouring everything in its path, leaving only desolation.

Geiz, embodying Greed, was a shimmering serpent that hoarded treasures of the earth, poisoning minds and hearts with its allure.

Acedia, the essence of Sloth, appeared as a shadowy figure that clung to its victims, draining their will to act or dream.

Ira, Wrath incarnate, was a fiery beast whose roar shook the heavens, destroying everything in its blind rage.

Neid, the avatar of Envy, slithered like a venomous mist, turning friends into foes and spreading discord and mistrust.

Finally, Stolz, Pride embodied, was a towering knight in gleaming armor, whose arrogance blinded even the wisest to reason.

These seven servants unleashed chaos upon the world in the name of the lord of Darkness and Chaos,”

Grewe said, his voice heavy with foreboding.

“Their presence corrupted humanity, spreading despair, hatred, and greed, dragging mortals into endless suffering and chaos.”

“The shadows spread,” Grewe said,

his voice low and dramatic.

“Chaos overtook the land. Humanity was plunged into despair.”

“Did Drita stop him?” a short-haired girl asked, her voice trembling.

Old Grewe nodded gravely.

“Drita fought Irett with all her might. She sealed him and banish him into the void, but it cost her dearly. Her light began to fade. To protect the future, she used her body to create four legendary treasures: the Sword, the Bow, the Spear, and the Shield. Only those worthy of her blessing, the heroes, can wield them.”

The children’s eyes gleamed with awe.

“And these heroes,” Grewe added, “will one day rise to save the world from the darkness.”

He paused, letting the story sink in. Then, with a mischievous grin, he pointed to one of the boys.

“Maybe it’ll be you, young one. Will you wield the Sword of Justice?”

The boy leapt up, brandishing his toy sword.

“I’ll defeat all the monsters!” he declared.

“No way! Spears are better! I’ll protect the village!”

Another child waved her wooden spear.

Grewe laughed heartily, but his laughter faded as he glanced out the window. The sky, painted with streaks of red clouds, seemed unsettling. The elder’s expression turned serious.

“But remember, children,” he said quietly, leaning forward and lowering his voice to a grave whisper.

“You must always behave and listen. Playing tricks might seem fun, but if you go too far, the dark lord’s servants might come to take you away.”

The children nodded quickly, their faces pale with fear. Even the boldest among them dared not argue with Old Grewe’s warning. Satisfied, Grewe straightened up and told children to return to their homes. As the children left, Old Grewe turned to the window, his eyes narrowing at the strange red streaks in the sky. His face tightened with worry, the lines on his weathered features deepening as though he carried a heavy, silent burden. He thought about the tales he had just told, wondering if they were mere stories or an omen of what was to come. The strange colors in the sky unsettled him deeply, and he whispered to himself, “Now this is unsual?” His heart suddenly weighed heavy with confusion.

As if on cue, a sudden light split the sky, followed by a thunderous roar. The ground trembled, and a strange silence fell over the room. The children huddled close to Grewe as the village outside erupted into chaos. Tonight, the old story felt less like a tale and more like a warning.