As the sun dipped beneath the horizon, a shroud of darkness descended upon the village. Lanterns scattered across the vicinity cast wavering glimmers, painting long, eerie shadows that stretched into the trees. Before long, even these lights succumbed to the voracious abyss of the surrounding woods, leaving nothing but an inscrutable void.

Before one of the modest huts, a man stood, a solitary figure in the obscurity. His hands coaxed a bundle of dry wood to life, coaxing flames from its depths to ward off the encroaching chill. Around this warm island of light, children huddled, their faces illuminated by the dancing flames, laughter and conversation flowing between them. The sanctity of the circle was a haven against the inky murk that encased them.

Having ignited the fire, the man rose, his posture regaining its composure. His gaze drifted beyond, towards the silhouette of a distant mountain that loomed like a castle, its presence imposing against the twilight canvas. Walls hewn from dark blue-grey stone, towers soaring with windows like mere slits, the castle stood as a defiant sentinel against the expanse of blue.

Yet, his contemplation was fleeting; duty called him back. The children's anticipation was palpable, their collective gaze turned towards him. With a deliberate turn, he returned to his place among them, settling into the prime spot. It was the hour, the setting perfect – time to weave a tale that would enchant and captivate.

And so, as the night enfolded them, stars sparkling like scattered gems in the heavens, the man's voice rose, like a guide through the labyrinth of imagination. The flickering fire mirrored the dance of his words, casting an enchantment over the rapt listeners. The man was a storyteller, his words a bridge that spanned the chasm between reality and the boundless realm of imagination.

With a clearing of his throat, he began, his voice carrying the weight of anticipation. "Ahem!" The children, amidst their playful bickering, fell silent almost immediately, drawn by the unspoken promise of a captivating tale. Their attention converged on him like sunflowers to the sun.

"In the beginning," his voice wove a spell as it resonated, "Gaea, the nurturing earth, and Shamash, the boundless heavens, coexisted as one entity, a realm immersed in chaotic tumult." With these words, he unleashed the gateway to imagination, captivating their young minds from the very onset. The children had always been intrigued by tales of divine beings, and this narrative had them hooked right away.

As he continued his storytelling, his words wove a tapestry of ancient battles, celestial clashes, and the unending feud between gods and demons. The children's eyes sparkled with wonder as they ventured into the realm of the extraordinary. For him, this was a cherished moment, a rare instance when he could transcend the role of a mere labourer. Through their rapt attention, he was no longer a slave; he was the keeper of secrets, the teller of legends. In their eyes, he was someone significant, someone who brought to life the mystical stories that held their fascination.

With every word he spun, he felt the palpable connection between himself and his young audience. Their imaginations soared under the wings of his narrative, their gazes locked onto him, and he in turn felt his own spirit lifted by their enchantment. In this shared world of storytelling, the boundaries that separated them dissolved, and he was no longer just a man but a portal to the wonders of the unknown.

He forged ahead, the flow of his words seamlessly continuing the tale. "But the aeons marched on until a moment decreed by the Supreme God — the one whose name encompasses all names — arrived. It was then that the once-entwined entities were severed. Gaea, the nurturing embrace of the earth, became the abode of demons, while Shamash, the celestial expanse of the heavens, opened its gates to the gods. Chaos was thus quelled, and a semblance of order reigned."

A hush descended, his words a bridge into the past, invoking the ages when gods and demons had clashed. He continued, his voice carrying the weight of history and the weight of lessons learned. "For a span of millennia, peace was the sentinel. Yet, the paradox of opposing forces is such that eternal harmony remains elusive. Conflict rekindled, escalating to a crescendo that threatened to rupture the very fabric of existence itself."

He paused, allowing the gravity of his words to settle among his captive audience. Their eyes, wide with rapt attention, reflected the awe-inspiring magnitude of the story he unravelled. In their gaze, he glimpsed their admiration for his knowledge, a feeling that warmed his heart.

Resuming his narrative, he recounted, "Once more, the great God intervened, enacting a separation that surpassed all previous divisions. As the ancient incantation from the revered book Udug-hul proclaimed: 'an-imin-bi ki-imin-bi' — the heavens are seven, the earths are seven."

The words flowed effortlessly, each line etched in his memory, the legacy of his time serving a scholar. Those lines, the chant of knowledge, had etched themselves deeply into his consciousness, to be shared now with the eager ears of these young minds.

Observing the children's rapt expressions, he savoured the palpable sense of wonder that his words evoked. In that moment, he felt the potency of storytelling, the power to ignite minds and kindle dreams. Satisfied, he pressed on, the momentum of his tale unwavering. "The Supreme God decreed the first earth and heaven to remain untouched, divinely secluded. Barriers were woven to withhold the celestial beings, ensconcing them within the veils of the heavens and earth."

"Uncle, how high is the first heaven?" The eager voice of a child broke through the tapestry of the tale.

"They say it's a journey of five hundred days for a seasoned cultivation master, and for us mortals, an unfathomable span of years," the storyteller replied. His voice held a touch of reverence for the mystical realm he described, a place distant both in space and time, beyond the grasp of ordinary understanding.

Another question followed, carrying the child's genuine curiosity. "Uncle, why did God create demons?"

With wisdom forged from age-old tales, the storyteller responded, "Both demons and gods spring from the same source, the one who transcends naming. In this cosmic dance, good and evil are but facets of the same deity."

The young minds were insatiable, their curiosity an unquenchable fire. "Uncle, what led to the war between gods and demons?"

Patiently, the storyteller wove the threads of lore into a coherent narrative. "The demons believed that the nameless one favoured them, and they harboured grievances against the gods. They waged war, driven by the desire to reclaim what they thought was rightfully theirs."

"Uncle, can we too harness our inner energy and ascend to become masters?"

A hint of regret tinged the storyteller's response. "My dear, that privilege is bestowed only upon those chosen by the heavens. While tales abound of mortals awakening their inner power, the path to such mastery is elusive and rare." He chose not to delve into the darker aspects of this truth, protecting the children's innocence from the harsh reality that some mortals who exhibited such gifts met untimely fates, hunted by their own kind in the name of suppression.

His responses were a dance of truth and delicacy, a balance between sharing knowledge and preserving the innocence of youth.

"Uncle, can we mortals ascend to the heavens?" The boy's question pierced the air, carrying a blend of innocence and hope.

A sigh of quiet resignation escaped the storyteller's lips. “Who can go up to the heavens, my dear? Only the gods dwell with Shamash forever!” His voice carried a tone of disappointment, an echo of his own unfulfilled aspirations. For he, too, had once harboured the same wish, a yearning to break the confines of his mortal existence and ascend to celestial realms.

Silence lingered for a moment, as the man drifted into his own thoughts. He quickly regathered his focus, his voice resuming its storytelling cadence. "The grand design of the Almighty, though promising, soon faltered. The demons and gods, intoxicated by the thrill of battle and the pursuit of supremacy, discovered means to traverse the barriers of the first heaven and earth, wreaking havoc upon each other's dominions."

His voice carried a sombre undertone, his words recounting the cycle of conflict that had persisted throughout time. "The God then devised a new strategy, birthing humans and other races. These creations were gifted with the power of choice, granted free will to align themselves with either celestial force. Thus, the humans became pawns in the grand celestial contest, unwittingly fighting battles on behalf of their superior counterparts."

The man's voice wove a tapestry of shifting allegiances and fleeting moments of tranquillity. "For epochs, this plan maintained a semblance of order. Yet, as with all things, it too unravelled. The gods and demons, driven by their relentless hunger for supremacy, shared portions of their power with their earthly pawns. Initially merger, these gifts granted the humans a degree of strength beyond their natural bounds."

"However," he continued, his voice tinged with a sense of foreboding, "the celestial beings realized the dangerous trajectory this had set. They sought to halt their gifts, but by then, the seed of power had taken root. Mankind, fuelled by ambition, began to advance. Civilization flourished, knowledge expanded, and humanity's strength grew to rival even the gods and demons."

The storyteller's words hung heavy, a reflection of the irreversible chain of events set in motion. "Two figures emerged from the ranks of humanity, Sasaki, the first Sword Saint, and Hubaal, the mighty Moon-Elf king. Their power and stature were a testament to the boundless potential humanity could wield, a potential that now posed a threat to both celestial forces."

A poignant shift marked the tale as the storyteller delved into a dark chapter. "The celestial entities, sensing the threat the burgeoning strength of surface dwellers posed, enacted a collective decision. They sought to eliminate the humans, whose ascendancy had rendered them a danger. The celestial prohibition still held, binding them from directly intervening. Instead, they dispatched their proxies, henchmen to carry out their will."

This turn of events, which should have been formidable, barely posed a challenge to mankind, now standing as the most potent race. But amidst the triumphant ascent, a shadow emerged. "Then emerged Lord Hubal," the storyteller continued, his voice carrying a solemn note. The Moon-Elf king succumbed to the influence of the demon king Baal, betraying his kin and creating the sinister Asura faction. His self-interest fuelled this transformation, blurring the lines between loyalty and ambition.

The Sword Saint, Sasaki, confronted his once-friend in a battle that bore the weight of betrayal. The victory was his, but the repercussions reverberated across society. "The rift Hubal's treachery caused could not be mended," the storyteller narrated. The enmity between the races, once united, surged to the surface. Accusations of jealousy tainted the Sword Saint's reputation, and the seeds of division were sown deep.

In the wake of these tumultuous events, the humans, the dominant race, harboured ambitions of supremacy. Yet Sasaki, the Sword Saint, stood in their way, opposing this course as intrinsically demonic. He proposed an alternative – the Five-Nation Theory, advocating harmony among the five dominant races. This proposition ignited fierce debates, as Sasaki championed equal distribution of resources.

With diligence and tenacity, Sasaki navigated the labyrinthine corridors of diplomacy, negotiating and reasoning with the races. Through his efforts, consensus was forged, leading to the partitioning of the world. He harnessed his formidable power to reshape the continents, creating distinct domains for each dominant race. Seas flowed where unity had once prevailed, forming a sword-like energy barrier that cleaved the world into distinct entities.

Even this feat, remarkable though it was, could not quell the fires of factionalism. "The swords of factional wars, once ignited, burned more fiercely than ever," the storyteller lamented. The divisions, entrenched in the soil of distrust and enmity, continued unabated, further deepened by celestial delight.

"Uncle, if the Sword Saint was against enslaving the other races, how come he allowed us mortals to be slaves for the noble?" The question posed a complex dilemma, challenging the very fabric of the story.

A cough escaped the storyteller's lips, the query having caught him off guard. "Listen, young one," he began, his tone cautious, "you must understand that certain questions are best left unspoken. Speaking against the Saint can be considered blasphemous, and there are severe consequences for those who do so."

The child's eyes widened in surprise and confusion. "What?..."

The storyteller swiftly changed the subject, his tone carrying a sense of finality. "That's all for today, children. Our time has come to an end." He cut off any further questions with the declaration, his instincts telling him that delving deeper into such matters would lead to precarious territory.

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Disappointment rippled through the children's voices. "Awww! But we were enjoying it. It wasn't even a story; it was history," they protested.

"Tell us a good story before we go back," they pleaded, their yearning for stories undeterred by the abrupt shift.

"Yes, uncle, tell us a story! There's still time," they chimed in, their voices harmonizing into a chorus of anticipation.

The storyteller's heart swayed, caught between the desire to impart wisdom and the need to safeguard innocence. His daughter's voice, too, joined the chorus, nudging him further. "Yes, Appa! Tell us one more story."

The storyteller smiled, moved by their enthusiasm. He saw the hunger for stories in their eyes, the same spark that had ignited his own love for tales. In that moment, he surrendered to their collective wish, ready to weave yet another tapestry of imagination, mystery, and wonder. For in stories, he found a way to connect the realms of knowledge and imagination, transcending time and boundaries to create something magical.

As the children delighted in their evening of storytelling, another scene unfolded at the castle gates. A man in his early fifties, with thinning grey hair, an unremarkable build, and an average countenance, stepped out. The air held a tranquil evening charm, and the guards stationed there couldn't help but offer their greetings.

"Good evening, Elder Geoffrey! Out for a walk, I see," one of the guards remarked, his tone laced with politeness. Geoffrey, along with an associate, continued their path without acknowledging the greeting, their focus set elsewhere.

Amidst the casual exchange, another guard chimed in, dismissing Geoffrey's significance. "Oi! There's no need to go out of your way to greet him. He's hardly anyone important."

"But he's an elder of our clan. Shouldn't we show him respect?" argued another guard, defending the customary courtesy.

A snort of derision followed. "Respect? For what, exactly? He's not like those who've earned their positions through merit. He's secured his title by currying favour with those in power over the years. They granted him his position, not as a reward for devoted service, but out of pity for his meagre lineage."

The debate continued, the tension between tradition and pragmatism simmering beneath their words. "Still..."

The other guard interjected, cutting off the protest. "Don't interrupt me. I've not finished. Geoffrey's standing within the clan is tenuous at best. He's only just managed to enter the beginning echelons of the hierarchy, and this year's results have been nothing short of dismal. The dissent among younger, stronger, and more deserving contenders is escalating. They're openly voicing their concerns, urging the clan leader to step in and strip Geoffrey of his title."

A sense of inevitability lingered in the air. "He's on the brink of being demoted to a regular member like the rest of us. It's only a matter of time," the guard concluded, the finality of his tone carrying the weight of their conversation.

Geoffrey's ears picked up on the guards' conversation, their words a stark reflection of his precarious situation. He chose to let their remarks wash over him, for they merely stated the undeniable truth. The path ahead was fraught with challenges, and unless he managed to reverse the tide, his hard-earned title would slip through his fingers. The sacrifices he had made to attain his position could crumble like a house of cards.

With a composed demeanour, Geoffrey continued his journey towards the village he presided over. The village, surrounded by towering trees standing sentinel-like, held an air of containment. At a glance, it seemed an impenetrable forest, until the entrance came into view, marked by the faint flicker of scattered lights.

Arriving at the entrance, Geoffrey's associate wasted no time in issuing a command for the village chief to be summoned. This impromptu inspection was a surprise, deliberately unannounced. At this hour, no one anticipated a visitor, let alone a clan elder.

Geoffrey stood at the entrance, his gaze sweeping across the village. His actions carried a sense of calculation as if he were evaluating the scene before him. From the shadows emerged two figures, a pair of men hurrying towards him. Leading the way was the village chief, a man of robust build despite his advanced age. His presence commanded respect, a testament to his strength and vitality that put those younger to shame. A mane of facial hair framed his face, marked by a strong jawline and a weathered countenance.

"Lord! Had you summoned me, I would have come to you," the chief greeted, bowing respectfully to the clan elder.

"One does not tarry when his home is engulfed in flames," Geoffrey replied cryptically, his words carrying an undertone of urgency.

"I don't understand, Lord," the chief admitted, genuine confusion etched on his features.

"Of course, you do," Geoffrey retorted, his tone implying that the chief was well aware of the rumours circulating. "And if you wonder why I stand here now, it's to set your affairs in order, for the sake of my own."

The chief's loyalty was evident as he pledged himself. "Whatever you require, Lord, I am at your service."

"I need a list," Geoffrey stated plainly, "a list of the under-performing elements."

Curiosity blended with concern in the chief's eyes. "What is your intention with them, Lord?"

Geoffrey's reply held a chilling pragmatism. "The usual. Some shall be sold, some intimidated, some punished. And in the gravest instances, some lives shall be forfeit."

Unbeknownst to the unfolding scenes around him, the man yielded to the children's enthusiastic request and decided to indulge them in yet another story. "Alright, alright," he conceded, "I will tell you an old tale, a short one, and the final one for tonight."

"It happened millions of years ago," he began, his voice carrying the weight of time.

"Before the great flood?" One of the children interrupted, their curiosity evident.

"Ahem! No, a few hundred years after that," the man responded, a hint of annoyance touching his words at the interruption.

"After the snake man?" Another child's voice chimed in, eager for connections.

"No, somewhere in between those tales. Now, no more silly questions, or I'll cease my storytelling," the man warned, restoring silence among the children.

With their attention reclaimed, he resumed his narrative. "As I've shared in my previous stories, the gods who dwell in Shamash are benevolent and pure. To steer us toward righteousness, the Creator selects individuals from among us to be their voices, typically humans, crafted in the divine image. This tale centres on one such man, who possessed the ability to hear the voice of God. He dedicated his entire life to serving the divine, seeking nothing in return."

"But now," he continued, "as age overtook him and solitude embraced him, he found himself bereft of kin and descendants to carry forth his legacy. For the first time, he petitioned the God for a favour, seeking a child to inherit his work and his lineage. The compassionate and gracious God, without asking for anything in return, granted the man's request. Miraculously, a child was born to him, evoking praises and gratitude to the God's benevolence."

The man's voice carried warmth and affection as he recounted the man's love for his precious child. Yet, he interjected with a reminder, "Now, remember, to fully submit to God means forsaking earthly desires, embracing whatever God bestows upon you. By seeking a boon for himself, the man slightly deviated from the divine path prescribed for him."

"To test his piety," the man explained, "the God presented the man with a challenging request, a test of his unwavering faith. The God called for a sacrifice—an offering of his only child in the name of God, to serve as a testament to humanity."

"Appa! I saw a shadow go into our hut," the girl's voice quivered with concern as she clutched the man's hand, seeking reassurance. The man cast a glance behind them, finding nothing to substantiate her claim.

"Uncle, it's always her excuse," another voice piped up, annoyance lacing the words. "Whenever the story takes a darker turn, she stirs up a commotion over some trivial matter, ruining the fun for everyone."

"Uncle, send her home!" The collective irritation echoed, their patience wearing thin due to the girl's disruptive behaviour.

"I really saw the shadow," she insisted, her voice wavering with a mix of urgency and sincerity. "I promise I'm not scared. There's nothing frightening about it. Appa, please continue the story. I'm truly not afraid." The determination in her tone sought to salvage the storytelling, her resolve asserting that she was undaunted by whatever had unsettled her briefly.

The man regarded his daughter with a mixture of concern and affection, questioning her well-being after her alarming statement. However, the girl displayed a facade of strength, suppressing her fear and presenting a brave face. Her efforts elicited a smile from the man, and he continued with his story.

"The man understood this was a trial from God," he resumed, his tone captivating the listeners once more. "But how could he willingly sacrifice his cherished child? What would others think? How could he explain this decision to his only son? The man pondered over these questions, consumed by his internal conflict. He abstained from food and drink, his heart heavy with the weight of his dilemma. Witnessing his father's turmoil, the boy approached him, concerned."

With a delicate touch, the man wove the tale, the emotions palpable in his voice. "And so, the father, with tears in his eyes, confided in his son, revealing the daunting choice he faced."

The narrative flowed, and the boy followed in his father's virtuous footsteps, becoming a beacon of purity and righteousness—a true guide for mankind. The boy's filial devotion was unwavering, and upon learning of his father's burden, he offered to be the sacrifice. An endearing smile graced his young face as he accepted his destiny without hesitation, comforting his aging father. Together, they embarked on a journey, the father leading in tears and the boy in high spirits, determined to fulfil his fate.

Throughout their path, demons attempted to sway the boy, tempting him with the allure of worldly pleasures and highlighting the pain of death. Yet, the boy's resolve remained unshaken, repelling the demons that sought to deter him. Even the formidable demon Baal made an attempt, but the boy clung to his values, unwavering and steadfast. Ultimately, they reached the designated mount where the sacrifice was to take place.

The tale reached a pivotal moment—the father laid the boy on a stone slab, binding his hands and feet, preparing to perform the solemn act. He raised his knife, his heart heavy with the burden he was about to bear. Yet, just as the blade was poised to descend, a divine intervention occurred. God's voice resonated, expressing satisfaction with the father and son. The father was instructed to spare the boy and offer a beast in his stead.

Pausing in his storytelling, the man surveyed his audience, sensing the range of emotions that had been stirred—pity, fear, and empathy, especially from his daughter. He felt a sense of accomplishment as the tale's impact took root. However, a sudden interruption came from an unexpected source—the village drunk, lying in a ditch nearby.

"That's it?" the drunkard's voice broke the flow, drawing everyone's attention.

“This stupid!” The man inwardly cursed the drunk for his untimely interruption, momentarily flustered before finding his response. "And so, they lived happily ever after. The boy also inherited the ability to hear God."

"Hmm! According to your story, the Great God doesn't sound all that merciful," the drunkard's voice interjected, derailing the conversation onto a different track. "Sounds more like our masters, working us to the bone and giving us nothing in return. And even if they do give us something, they take back tenfold. Moreover, how could the man be certain he was truly receiving messages from God? After all, he was merely hearing voices. And those voices, to me, sound pretty demonic."

A voice of reason interjected, trying to restore a sense of perspective. "It's just a story, man. Why are you getting so worked up?"

Seeking reassurance, the girl tightened her grip on her father's hand, her expression marked by concern. "Appa, what if God asked for a sacrifice from you?"

The man was momentarily taken aback by the question, a fleeting thought echoing, "I shouldn't have told that cursed story in the first place." After a brief pause, he contemplated the question and delivered a heartfelt answer, his words carrying a weight of conviction. "I will make God my enemy!" With those words, he drew his daughter into a warm embrace, the statement reflecting his protective devotion to her.

As father and daughter held each other, a sense of connection and understanding passed between them. The girl's initial smile gave way to a more sombre expression, hinting at the depth of thought and emotion that the conversation had stirred within her.

"What is this I'm hearing, chief? Do I detect the scent of rebellion in the air?" the elder in charge of the mortal village spoke as he conducted his rounds, accompanied by the village's own chief.

"It's not like that, Lord Geoffrey. They were just sharing stories," the village chief responded, attempting to defuse the tension.

"Fun, huh…" Geoffrey's voice dripped with scepticism. "Gathering around, discussing gods and their masters. Openly proclaiming intentions to make enemies of their masters, all of this in my presence. Does it not bear the mark of rebellion, chief? No wonder the performance of your people was lacklustre this season." Geoffrey scrutinized the chief before continuing, "Remind me, chief, what punishment is meted out for entertaining thoughts of rebellion against one's sovereign?"

"No, my Lord..." the chief began to explain, but Geoffrey's tone did not allow for a lengthy response.

"Are you suggesting that I am a fool, incapable of comprehending what unfolds before my own eyes? Huh, chief?" Geoffrey's eyes held an intense gaze.

The village chief, sensing the gravity of the situation, quickly dropped to his knees and performed a kowtow, his people following his lead. "I wouldn't dare... None of us would dare," he stammered.

"I know you are loyal, chief," Geoffrey remarked. "As a magnanimous leader, I can pardon the others. But what about the one who would even entertain the notion of making the gods his adversaries?"

"My liege, we all pledge unwavering allegiance to you and the clan. There is no room for doubt," the village chief hastily reaffirmed.

Then prove it.

"How?"

"We will follow the narrative."

"My Lord?!"

"Yes! As your god, I demand a sacrifice. A sacrifice, especially from that man."

The man kowtowed again and again till his forehead started to bleed, saying, “Lord! Forgive my ignorance!!”

“Lo and behold! Thy shan’t be forgiven!” Geoffrey mocked. “Now! Hold steadfast to the covenant and offer the sacrifice to appease thy God”

Clutching his weeping daughter tightly, the man glanced at the leader, seeking assistance. The leader turned his gaze away, lamenting his own powerlessness.

"What is the chief's name?" Geoffrey inquired.

Puck Fablefoot, esteemed elder.

Is he the same individual you previously mentioned as the worst-performing asset among your group?

"Yes, my Lord." The chief responded with a touch of remorse.

Ah, well! Besides his idleness, he also utters sacrilegious words! It's no surprise that multiple clans have cast him out during his brief existence.

Now, sacrifice your offspring or die with your whole family.

Desperation and fear gripped Puck as he pleaded, “Lord! Please have mercy!”

But Geoffrey remained unmoved, responding coldly, “I’m sorry, my dear, my hands are tied. The performance of the slaves has been abysmal over the past year. And it has been like this since I have taken over, and it weighs heavy on my standing with other elders. You are the perfect example I can make to motivate your fellow mortals to reset their fallen standards. Now, hurry up! I haven’t got it all night.”

Puck's mind raced, trying to make sense of the horrifying ultimatum. Everything had taken a sudden, nightmarish turn, and his world was crashing down around him.

Chief! Lock them up and burn his whole family.

But Lord, they have a two-month-old inside.

And?

“Nothing lord.” He went toward Puck and tried to snatch his daughter away from him. “I will kill her. May god forgive our sins.”

“No! It has to be him!” Geoffrey stated firmly.

The chief attempted to intervene, but Puck raised his hand to stop him, his voice firm and resolute, “You have already done enough for us, chief, and it’s enough. I think it’s better to die than to live like this; after all, I only have a life of a slave to look forward to.” Holding his daughter tightly, he turned and walked towards his house, closing the door behind him.

Inside, Puck could feel the weight of his decision, a mixture of determination and despair. His daughter clung to him, tears streaming down her face as they faced an unimaginable fate.

Appa! When will the beast appear as a sacrifice in my stead?

“Soon, my dear.” Saying that he hit the back of her head—knocking her out. “I’m sorry my child, for bringing you into this cruel world.”

“No!no!no! This isn’t happening. What should we do? What should we do? Do we kill her?” His wife was having a fit.

“Ethel!” the man screamed, his voice full of anguish, “Will we be the same after that? Will it be worth it?”

Ethel tried to speak, her voice trembling with emotion, “But I…”

He cut her off gently, his face a mix of sadness and understanding, “Yes, I understand.”

As their conversation ebbed, the woman shifted her gaze to the two-month-old baby in her arms. The baby's innocence seemed to contrast starkly with the turmoil in their lives.

For a moment, the man's eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the child, but he quickly regained his composure and responded, “it’s also his fate!”

The woman's eyes welled with tears as she looked at the tiny life in her arms. In a voice choked with emotion, she whispered, “Why is this happening to us? Weren’t we always pious? Why is God forsaking us?”

God only looks after his blessed ones; we are nothing but mere mortals to waste his attention. Now accept it; it’s our fate. Let’s drink the poison; at least it would be better than to be burned alive.

On Geoffrey’s instruction, the villagers burnt the house. “I want to see all their bones in the morning.” Saying that, he left.

“Lord Geoffrey, I’m sorry but wasn’t it a little overboard? As a member of the righteous faction, won’t your actions be questioned?” asked one of his associates, concern etched on their face.

Geoffrey's expression remained stoic as he replied, “As long as it is within the rules, everything is permitted. I would only have to compensate—the clan—for the departed mortal’s worth; which is a small price for the impact I wanted to create.”

After that night, the village underwent a significant transformation. Geoffrey implemented new rules and regulations, and the performance of the slaves sky-rocketed. He earned all the credit for the positive changes, further solidifying his position among the elders. With time, he managed to manoeuvre his way into the inner circle of the clan leader.

Over the course of twelve years, numerous changes took place within the clan. The unexpected death of the clan leader led to a power struggle for leadership. Geoffrey attempted to claim the title of clan leader using the power and support he had amassed. However, his rival, Alfred Thorne, managed to seize the position due to his lineage and the general aversion to Geoffrey's methods. Alfred's ascension to the interim clan leader position dealt a blow to Geoffrey's aspirations.

In response, Geoffrey sought to bring the surviving son of the former clan lord under his influence, using the boy as a means to eliminate Alfred Thorne. With the backing of certain elders, a power struggle ensued between the two factions. The deadlock continued until a faction of elders, frustrated by the young master's behaviour, broke away, leading to a division within the clan.

Despite the challenges, Alfred Thorne's claim to become the official clan lord gained momentum. His announcement received positive feedback from the leaders of the righteous faction, known as the Order of the Zaštitnik, and the date for his official accession ceremony was set.