VOLUME 1: LITTLE UPRISING

Prologue: The Lazy Fool

Set in the small elven village called Yoretree, there is a young elf by the name of ‘Art’ known for his laziness and foolishness. He has strange white hair and a pair of emerald eyes.

For a primitive race such as the elves, he can be quite the useless one— he loves the arts, history, books, stories, folktales, songs, music, and all sorts of useless things. Moreover, he fancy himself as an inventor though half of the time his inventions have a tendency to fail.

Despite all of his flaws, the village and his family loved him.

With a past life almost forgotten, Art sets off to his new life with ease. In his past life, he have been a NEET who doesn’t even have a degree in his name… Not to mention any life skills, but he manages. Through his small efforts, he contributes to the village to the best of his abilities.

Admittedly, Life has been difficult for him in the first few decades, but slowly, he is integrating with the culture of this new world. He can be eloquent and persuasive if he needs to be.

In the end, though, he is still considered the ‘lazy fool’ of the village.

He doesn’t know a thing about bows, hunting, foraging, or the usual elf activities. If not for him digging a well and creating a pulley mechanism for the village to use, the village elder would have likely scolded him severely for his hard-headedness and lack of contribution.

For Art, he doesn’t care much about glory and responsibility.

In the nearly century-long time of his life, he has focused on nothing else but for his selfish comfort. His fascination with this new world’s history is not helping at all.

Art has been quite an uneducated individual from his past life, as a result, he can barely take advantage of his knowledge of his past world’s sciences and technologies. His past life has been anything but nice. 

With shallow knowledge he picks up from high school and random pieces of knowledge on the internet, he makes do with what he has and tries his best to contribute.

But then again, he considers himself at least intellectually superior to his fellow primitive elves.

But oh man, he has been naïve— very naïve.

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Part 1: The Elf Who Broke

Do you know what it is like to be hopeless?

It is only the beginning of the night, and my fellow elves are happily sharing their stories at the bonfire. Truly a normal occasion where we spend our time in each others' company. We laugh, cry, and share a meal— it is a crucial part of being an elf. 

But such peace cannot last for long.

Peace is part of our daily lives. We never know of war, and never draw blood for the sake of murder. This is the nature of elves.

And that is what makes us weak.

Raiders wielding metal weapons come at us from left and right. They bring their steeds trampling on our humble huts. They spread the flames by scattering a flammable solution agent into the forest. They surround us like a pack of wolves herding their prey until it gives up its legs from exhaustion.

We are being hunted like animals.

The terribleness of humanity exposes itself at that instant. They don't have an interest in pillaging us, but simply have designs for our women and the young. I see them grab my kin as easy as they come. They nab my younger brother, my sisters, my mother, and even the small infants hiding in the arms of their desperately escaping parents.

The elderly elves have it worse as they are made as target practices for the several archers. There is laughter, crying, and feasting of sick entertainment from blood and death that stands a strong contrast to the elves' harmonious way of life. It is ugly, disgusting, and downright deplorable.

"We fight!" I try to rouse my fellow elves, yet the irony speaks more for itself.

My sweating back and trembling hands betray my words. Not a single elf hears my warcry. Alone, I find myself in the refuge of cowardice. I step back. I falter. I fear. I flee.

Before I know it, someone suddenly pushes me to the well.

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I am in despair.

So much it is drowning me. It leaves me breathless and my eyes dull with greyness. I feel the well water below me going back and forth. It is dark here under the well. The little light from the moon offers me only a tiny comfort of being unable to see what cruelty is happening to my village.

From the well, I hear the dreary screaming of my elf kin. I desperately try to climb upwards, yet the walls are too slippery. My fingers are all bloody from my many tries. And each failure only becomes more torturous than the last. The exhaustion is slowly claiming my every last bit of energy.

I recall my mother's genuine smile as she pushed me down the well in her blind attempt to save me. She is wounded. Blood gushes from her abdomen. And from what I recall, she seems to be limping. I desperately climb the slippery walls, but I keep on slipping.

"Please be alive…" Mom, Dad, my sisters, my brothers...

Most often, the temptation of screaming comes to my mind, but I dare not for it will only invite the attention of any human raiders in the well's proximity. I bitterly regret the times I didn't practice archery, tree climbing, or any of an elf's inherent skills.

I am too complacent all too busy with my daydreaming, reading poetry, and writing stuff. I don't want to be a hero, so I don't look either at the sword or a bow. I will never be a villain, as I am too aware that I lack the abilities. I am too happy with being a bystander as I luxuriate myself with sloth.

I am an elf, but not really an elf. Perhaps this subconscious is what has been holding me back for all those years. Or maybe, this is just a poor excuse to veil my inability. 

I am 92 years old, and all I have in my name is a broken century. Elves are a long-living race, though by human standards, my appearance is about in my 20s. It still wouldn't excuse the fact that I have memories totaling the past a hundred years.

I love living slowly.

Now, I am dying slowly.

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The irony is so laughable I cannot even criticize myself for how futile I have been living.

I smell the burning wood, the bloody slaughter, and the salty sweat mixing with the wind. I visualize what is happening above me as the sounds of crying and shouting create a picture for me.

I punch the well's walls with my small fist. I shudder as the physical pain wakes me from the illusion of despair. I cannot be in despair yet. I have to do something!

I grit my teeth and climb.

My fingers slip. But I don't let it bother me. I force my nails if needed, and thus, I climb. Abrasions accumulate on my palm as I grip the walls that are slowly getting a shade of red. I feel my skin peeling every time I slide down in failure. The tips of my nails are getting bloody, not to mention the small bits of dust getting on my open wounds.

Only in the light of dawn does I manage to rise from the well.

But it is too late.

No longer is there any crying and screaming, only small sobs coming from the lost and defeated. I see Uncle Trudviar, a single father and a humble hunter, carrying his bloody daughter in his arms. I see a world of ash all too broken.

The human raiders didn't show any mercy to my people.

I stumble forward with the little strength that I have left. I see pikes with heads of familiar elf kin—my neighbors, friends, and… my family. Maybe the only family I will ever have. 

Her face is ferocious, yet the only expression I see is gratitude superimposing on her visage when she pushes me down the well. Her smile to me as she pushes me down the well is all that I see… is all that I want to see. I cannot imagine the pain she must suffer as she fights with her last breath. Then there is also him. His face lacks any particular feature except the silent aloofness of a father, of a man, a true role model.

My gaze inadvertently falls on the others. The brothers, sisters, all of them... An elf society's Siblinghood is shared by a village. The bonds we create transcend blood ties. Because of the unique genealogy of elves, it is not wrong for every elf to treat others as sisters and brothers.

Thus, seeing the sight of my elf kin's heads on pikes is more hurtful than I imagine.

I want to scream! To cry! Yet, I cannot bring myself to… This is the inevitability of my weakness. I wish to be strong, but I know that is impossible for I am all too aware of what I cannot do. I look at the ruins of what remains of our humble village.

I should do something.

So, I spur myself from the despair. I annihilate the sadness encumbering my shoulders and replace it with happy memories. I reminisce about the times when this was but a peaceful village of elves. I can almost see it. The primitive huts, open clearings, and tall trees.

I pretend to be fine.

Under the illusion of the past, I move. With my bare hands, I dig on the earth. My already bloody hands soak the dirt with its color. I reject the pain and continue digging. I come to my mother's pike, remove her head, and gently place it in the hole. I similarly do the same for the others.

"We should burn them." Uncle Trudviar tells me in his deadpan voice while he continues desperately hugging his daughter. Not a single tear escapes him. There is only death in his eyes. I ignore him and just continue digging the graves for my elf kin to lay in rest.

In one final burst, Trudviar howls in a mad fury. He screams like a broken madman.

"We bury what we can and leave others to burn..." Another elf comes approaching me, limping and wounded. He addresses me with the same apathetic tone Trudviar carries.

I look at him, and then at the pile of corpses forming a small hill. The human raiders make quick work of their clean-up by tossing the damaged elves to the flames. It burns so brightly. The elven kind doesn't have any concrete faith to adhere to and has a shapeless form of worship. Thus, their grave rites are shallow and lack rituals.

I continue burying the heads because this is how I want it done. I sneak a glance at Trudviar.

"We should bury them. Because that is the way of things. When someone dies, we bury them. We do not burn them. We aren't born of fire. We are born of the earth so it is only right that we return to the earth…"

I finish digging some of the graves. But I still have more to dig. I use the pikes to mark their graves. I stand in silence and mourn for the dead. The elf beside me just blankly stares at my pretentiousness. I am aware that what I am doing is futile, and none of this will give me true closure.

Neither the dead will.

After all, there is no afterlife.

However, I do believe in reincarnation. After all, I have been a product of one. I remember my days as a human whose worth in society is barely above trash. I pray for my dead elf kin to have a beautiful next life.

"You have made your decision..." The elf whispers to me, his voice getting a little bit weaker. "Then I guess, I should also make mine..." He draws a dagger he pilfers from a dead human, and with one swift motion, he uses it to slice his throat.

The gushing of blood and the gurgling sound he makes sends a shiver down my spine. 

There is silence, but it doesn't last for long. Suicide. It is an easy way out, but not any easier than accepting death so simply.

"Pfft..." I snicker at the thought of suicide. "I cannot..." There is just no justification for doing it. All of my limbs are still intact, I have no injuries, and is still far from imminent death. I must be going crazy. But I guess, that's only natural.

I trudge forward on the dead elf and drag him. "Emed," I whisper to the dead elf and address him by his name. "You did well... Emed. You did well." I give him a shallow compliment. No matter how small, this should at least comfort him. The dead do not hear the living, but who can really tell? "I hope you too will have a beautiful next life."

I want vengeance, but I am well too aware of how impossible it is. I don't have any grand powers, not even a plot armor, so what good would be desiring revenge come from me?

Still. I. want. my. vengeance.

If the dead do hear me, then all more the reason to avenge them.

I look at Trudviar. Then my eyes land on the various elves hiding from the debris, and trees. I come to an enlightenment. Maybe if I am alone, I will not be able to do it. Of course, Trudviar and I alone will not be able to do it. Even if I add all of the remaining survivors of our village, I don't see a way forward. But what if it is just not the two of us? Not just these few survivors?

An elven village population averagely has about 50 people. My village has 72. This is quite plenty already by elf standards. Still, the situation is bleak. I count roughly less than half of what survived the night raid. Surely, however, we aren't the only elf village in this forest. There will be other groves too. If I gather all of the elves in this forest, there might be a chance for me... for us... 

Revenge? It is possible.

It will be difficult as I glance at the pessimistic amount of survivors. But I have to try.

"Trudviar," I call to my uncle with a smile that starkly contrasts the miserable surroundings. "It's miserable isn't it?"

I look around at the ruins of our home. I feel for the presence of the struggling elves trying to make sense of what is left of the village. I see them. The elderly, crippled, and a few youths barely juvenile.

"Do you know, we cannot be miserable alone?" I dreadfully add, to which, I direct a sly smile to Trudviar.

In a long time, humanity has prospered... Meanwhile, the elf kin have regressed and stagnated.

I theatrically close my fist in real anger, imagining the hearts of my enemy to be crushed just within these palms.  "Don't you see it? We just have to inflict an equal amount of pain, right?"

Poison drips from my tongue, but like how the honey flows from the Devil's Source, I tempt them with the sinful temptation we call Vengeance.

"Offer me your fealty," I demand him unreasonably to give me his loyalty.

Trudviar looks at me with confusion. 

I know this is not how a younger person should address their older counterpart, but currently, Trudviar is in his most vulnerable state. If I wish to take hold of his heart, now is my only chance.

You cannot build charisma over just in a day, but you can concoct a lie in an instant and make others believe in it for eternity.

"From henceforth, I shall declare myself the King of Fae! I am the destined child of a world beyond ours. I am Arthram Fae Zorun. My elf kin, receive me as your King and I shall point you to a path forward!"

I proclaim with a strong conviction to the point that I too am believing it. I raise my nose a bit higher projecting an illusion that seems to be looking down on Trudviar.

"Believe in me as I do believe in you..." I softly mutter, with weight on my voice. "Don't you want it? Revenge! For your daughter! For Viari!" I exclaim his daughter's name, taking hostage the dead young elf's name. "Revenge! You do want it, don't you!? For your friends! Sisters! Brothers! If you want it, you take it!" I scream at the onlookers who remain cowering from their hiding places.

"How dare you put my daughter's name into your mouth?" Trudviar hatefully glares at me.

It is not so easy to make them believe me. It is pathetic, but the only thing I can do is stoke their anger and take advantage of their vulnerability. 

"So what will you do? Stew on your anger? Wallow on your sadness?"

My every word strikes Trudviar to the core. I can tell by the subtlest changes in his expression.

"All of you! You have lost something important to you, yet you fear moving forward. Cowards you all are..."

I scream at them, my voice deeply resonates with them. I can tell. I can see it in their eyes. They are moved.

"We all have nothing to lose, so tell me... do you really still have something to fear?"

A long silence ensues letting my emotions burn, and seep into their heads.

"I claim Kingship for I desire to unite the elves under a single flag. This shall be my greatest revenge on humanity! Hear me, for destiny, has chosen me!"

The momentum carries me. The unyielding confidence that transcends arrogance plainly reveals itself to them. I feel the breeze around me causing my ashen gray hair to flutter, and my little wounds to feel a bit of stinging at the touch of the wind. I don't wince as I cannot break my act at this crucial moment.

Trudviar goes down to one knee, and finally… he swears his allegiance to me.

"I am Trudviar, a humble hunter of Yoretree Village."

Trudviar bows his head solemnly and stretches the hatchet in his hand to me.

"I offer my fealty to you, the self-proclaimed King of Lorekleim Forest."

From henceforth, I start my road to Kinghood.

And therefore, ending my broken century.