The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the training ground.
A young Perseus, drenched in sweat, stood before Uncle Linden, sword in hand. The air hung heavy with anticipation. Linden's gaze, a blend of pride and seriousness, locked onto the child.
“Perseus,” Linden began, voice steady but warm, “today, I’ll teach you something special. This isn’t just a move; it’s about persistence. It’s your father’s legacy.”
As soon as he heard of his father, Perseus’ eyes sparkled with excitement as he hurried to follow Uncle Linden, his steps quickening with anticipation.
“For this technique you must master the flow” Uncle Linden added.
Perseus nodded; determination etched on his face. “I have been training to reach that flow, telling my mind to shut up! But it just won’t” He stared at his palms, tracing the rough callouses with a furrowed brow, “How do I reach that place where nothing can touch me?"
“It’s simple, stop trying and just let go,” Linden said, placing a firm hand on Perseus' shoulder. “The problem with you, Perseus, is that you try to do everything persistently. You never let go. However, sometimes, persistence lies in letting go…”
“Let go…” Perseus mumbled as he looked up towards Linden, “Uncle, let’s go at it again!”
They trained from dawn till dusk. Strikes melded into a seamless rhythm, each movement charged with purpose. Perseus, muscles burning, pushed on, guided by Linden’s presence.
“Let go of distractions, Perseus,” Linden’s voice cut through the air. “Ground yourself in this moment, in each breath and movement. The present is your only ally.”
Perseus closed his eyes briefly, drawing on memories of hardship and triumph. Clarity surged within him. His strikes became a blur, a relentless force overwhelming all defenses. In that moment, he felt untouchable.
“That’s it… You’ve done it,” Linden said, his voice carrying a rare note of pride.
Breathless, Perseus met his uncle’s gaze, a smile spreading across his face. “I feel stronger…”
Linden pulled Perseus into a heartfelt embrace, his usually stoic expression melting into one of deep emotion. “Perseus, in this world, the truth is unyielding: battles are as eternal as the stars. He fell defending our home, and there will come a day when I must do the same. Yet, the spirit of this village endures through our blades. From today, your father lives in your sword, and so do I”
A chuckle escaped Linden’s lips as he pulled back, a gleam of inspiration in his eyes. “I’ve got the perfect name for it,” he said, turning to Perseus. “A strike to protect all you hold dear and to vanquish only darkness. We’ll call it the Persistent Strike.”
As they stood together, watching the sun set and casting a warm glow over Perseus’s sword, he imagined the enemies he would defeat with this technique. The vision of slicing through vile behemoths gave him a sense of power. But as he looked up, the image shifted—it wasn’t a behemoth he faced, but Uncle Linden.
Huff... Huff...
Perseus blinked, trying to shake the unsettling vision. His mind swirled with thoughts of the training, his father’s legacy, and Uncle Linden’s teachings. He felt a strange weariness creeping over him, the day's exhaustion blending with a gnawing sense of dread.
His muscles ached from the intense training, each movement a reminder of the price of mastery. He took a deep breath, attempting to ground himself, but the unsettling feeling lingered. The world around him seemed to blur and twist, the training ground fading into an indistinct haze.
‘A nightmare?’ Perseus wondered, his chest heaving with each breath. A sharp pain in his chest from suddenly waking up grounded him to reality. Morning light filtered through a small, dusty window, gently illuminating the hospital room. The contrast between the fresh sunlight and the lingering scent of herbs and antiseptics served as a stark reminder of the battle’s aftermath. The morning birds sang their tunes as though nothing had changed, yet Perseus knew that nothing was the same anymore.
Every muscle protested as he tried to move, the bandages wrapped tightly around his aching body. He turned his head slowly, seeing Holmes lying beside him on another bed, similarly bruised and weary.
"Relax," Holmes murmured, his voice a tired blend of relief and exhaustion. He turned to look at Perseus, eyes reflecting both pain and gratitude. “The village is safe. You killed the Archetype.”
Perseus’s heart thudded violently. He forced himself upright, wincing as his muscles screamed in protest. “What about Uncle Linden?” he croaked, the words catching in his throat.
Holmes’ face twisted, his mouth opening and closing as if the words were too heavy to lift. “Linden... was the Archetype,” he finally uttered, each word escaping like a slow, painful breath.
Perseus clutched the edge of the bed, his knuckles whitening. His vision swam, cold sweat beading on his brow. “Oh…” he breathed, the word hanging lifelessly in the air. His face hardened, eyes narrowing as a tempest of emotions brewed within.
With a sudden, almost frantic movement, Perseus swung his legs over the side of the bed. His armor, swords, and bow lay scattered on the table nearby, remnants of the battle that had nearly claimed his life. He reached for them, his hands trembling as he grasped the familiar, comforting weight of his weapons.
“Where are you going? You’re not fully healed yet…” Holmes’ voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of concern that he couldn’t hide.
"Forward, always forward," Perseus said, his voice cracking. He turned away, not wanting Holmes to see the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. Each step he took was heavy, his boots thudding against the wooden floor. His fingers clutched his weapons tightly, knuckles white with the effort to contain the flood of emotions within him.
“Aren’t you going to lead his funeral?…” Perseus’ grip slowly loosened as he reached the infirmary door.
“No…” Holmes looked down towards the ceiling, “…I have failed as the Chief,” he finally said, his eyes rooted to the ceiling, “besides, the villagers trust the priest more than they do me…”
Perseus stood there, his head never turning back. With a slight nod, he began walking.
Holmes watched in silence as Perseus retreated down the hallway, each step echoing a growing distance between them. The chill in the air seemed to seep into his bones, making the space around him feel stark and desolate. He turned to the window, where the village, unified in purpose, moved with a sense of purpose towards the cathedral. Their collective gaze was fixed ahead, full of reverence and resolve, leaving no room for him in their sight.
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His grip on the windowsill tightened, fingers trembling slightly. The once solid support of his position now felt like a cruel reminder of his impotence. The crowd, a sea of faces all pointing towards a shared hope, contrasted sharply with the solitary figure making his way towards the village gates.
The murmurs from the gathering crowd, brimming with fervor, nearly drowned out his whispered plea. “Don’t go…” His words, swallowed by the din of their anticipation, went unheard. Even though Uncle Linden had always stood as a beacon of steadfastness, the village had been swayed by the priest's words. The weight of their collective judgment pressed heavily on Holmes, leaving him helpless as the man he wished to protect walked away.
As Perseus walked through the village, each face he passed seemed to reflect a mirror of his own grief and confusion. The blurred vision from his unshed tears made the villagers’ shifting expressions of sorrow and relief appear even more poignant. Each gaze he met seemed to pierce him, a silent accusation, a reminder of the burden he now carried.
The path leading out of the village was lined with flowers, laid down by those who mourned the loss of their loved ones. Perseus’ heart ached with every step, the fragrant blossoms underfoot a stark contrast to the turmoil raging inside him. His mind replayed the moments of the battle, the realization dawning on him in a sickening wave. Linden’s face, twisted by the Archetype’s malevolent influence, haunted his thoughts.
Leaving the village behind, Perseus heard the distant chime of cathedral bells, signaling the start of Linden’s funeral.
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In the Village cathedral, the air was thick with the weight of collective grief. Countless villagers had gathered for Linden’s funeral, their faces etched with sorrow and reverence. Candles flickered in their holders, casting a soft, wavering light that danced upon the ancient stone walls. The scent of incense mingled with the faint aroma of wildflowers, placed tenderly around Linden's body.
Lorian stood amidst the sea of mourners, feeling the palpable grief that seemed to seep into every corner of the cathedral. The air was heavy with sorrow, pressing down on him like a physical weight. His heart ached with the shared loss, his eyes reflecting the collective despair of the villagers. He felt his breath catch in his throat, each inhale tinged with the faint scent of incense and wildflowers.
As he scanned the crowd, his gaze lingered on the flickering candles casting dancing shadows on the ancient stone walls. The soft, wavering light seemed to mirror the turmoil within him. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the ache in his muscles a lingering reminder of the battle that had raged from one noon to the next. The villagers, fatigued and injured, had chosen to rest until dawn before gathering for the funeral.
Lorian closed his eyes briefly, the throbbing in his temples a familiar, unwelcome presence. The headache had subsided after a day of rest, but the priest's words echoed in his mind. “The headache and nosebleeds are effects of staying in a foreign world for too long,” the priest had informed him. His fists clenched involuntarily at the memory, knuckles whitening. ‘He said it would only get worse if I stay here any longer,’ Lorian thought, a sense of urgency bubbling beneath his sorrow. "I need to find a way back to Earth fast."
Opening his eyes, Lorian took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling with measured control. He glanced around, taking in the village choir group dressed in somber attire of deep purples and blacks. They formed a solemn circle around Linden and the other heroes’ dead bodies, their eyes downcast and their hands clasped in silent prayer.
“Let us begin,” the priest intoned, his voice a low rumble that carried through the cathedral, reverberating off the cold stone. His words seemed to linger in the air, a prelude to the sacred ritual about to unfold. He then began singing, his deep baritone resonating with a haunting clarity that filled the vast space:
I am the priest, my words ring true
Echoes of heroes, their time is due
In the heart of the village, their tale is spun
Warriors who battled 'til the day was won~~
The bodies of the warriors in their caskets began to stiffen, a strange, ceramic-like color spreading across their skin, giving them an eerie, lifelike appearance. The villagers watched in awe; their breath held as the transformation took place.
See the shadows in the flickering light
Candles burning for who fought the night
Among the fallen, one stands tall
Linden the mighty, he gave his all~~
Holmes, confined to his hospital bed, heard the priest’s voice resonate through the village, reaching his ears like a distant, mournful echo. He closed his eyes, allowing the melody to wash over him, feeling the tears prick at the corners of his eyes.
The choir group joined the priest, their voices blending in a haunting harmony:
I see a song of valor and pain
I see the courage that will not wane
I see portrayals of the trials faced
And Linden stand with grace
I see them on the edge of doom
I see them light the darkest room
I see the village standing free tonight
But at the cost of their fight~~
Perseus, having already left the village, heard the faint strains of the choir's song as he reached the edge of the forest clearing. He clenched his fist, his jaw set in determination. “Forwards, always forwards,” he muttered, pushing onward despite the ache in his heart.
The choir group suddenly fell silent as the priest took the lead once more, his voice echoing with a solemn reverence:
In the whispers of the wind, their names resound
Linden's voice among them, a haunting sound
For the peace of the village, he stood his ground
In the tales of the elders, his legend is found~~
Deep within the village sewers, a snake slithered through the darkness, its forked tongue flicking out, tasting the air. Its pupils dilated as if it could sense the weight of the ceremony above, a twisted euphoria in its movements. Turning into a dark corner, its body began morphing into that of a person.
Children sat wide-eyed and still,
Listening to the tales of bravery and iron will.
Linden’s heart, they were told, was a beacon in the fray,
guiding the lost and leading them to the day~~
“…it can’t be…” A beautiful woman sobbed in the depths of the forest, her voice raw with anguish. “…Father….” Her cry echoed through the trees, mingling with the distant strains of the choir.
Several voices joined the priest, their song rising once more in a powerful chorus:
I see a song of valor and pain
I see the courage that will not wane
I see portrayals of the trials faced
And Linden stand with grace
I see them on the edge of doom
I see them light the darkest room
I see the village standing free tonight
It’s protectors in our sight~~
Holmes, alone in his hospital room, clenched his fists, the tears streaming down his cheeks as the music reached its crescendo.
We've wandered through shadows, through whispers of fate
Now we stand here to mourn and celebrate
The echoes of heroes who gave us our lives
Their sacrifice forever survives
The bodies in the caskets had turned into lifelike statues, their features frozen in a final, noble stance. The priest raised his hand, prompting the villagers to rise and carry the statues. They moved with reverence, the statues heavy with the weight of history and sacrifice.
In the silence of the night, their spirits soar
Linden and the heroes, forever more
Guardians of the village, legends born
In our hearts, their memory sworn
I am the priest, my words ring true
Echoes of heroes, their time is due
In the heart of the village, their tale is spun
Warriors who battled 'til the day was won~~
Lorian followed the procession, his steps heavy yet purposeful, as the villagers carried the statues towards the forest clearings. There, the statues were placed among others, forming a silent, eternal testament to the bravery and sacrifice of those who had fought for the village’s freedom. The Statues of Triumph stood tall, guardians of the village’s legacy, their stories forever etched in the hearts of those they had protected. Their lifelike forms, frozen in poses of valor and sacrifice, cast long shadows in the twilight, each figure a silent sentinel against the encroaching darkness.
Lorian stood before them, his heart heavy with a mixture of pain and awe. The soft murmurs of the villagers working methodically to place the statues filled the air, their movements reverent and precise. Each statue was positioned with care, as if any misstep might disrupt the delicate balance of their sacred duty.
The twilight scene wrapped Lorian in a chilling grip, each breath heavy with unease. Silence pressed down, broken only by the occasional eerie rustle of wind through the trees.
Out of the quiet came a whisper from behind, barely more than a breath, yet charged with a sinister warning: “Be wary of the priest.”
Lorian spun around, eyes wide, scanning the shadowed clearing where the torchlight flickered ominously. The villagers moved like phantoms, completely oblivious. His heart raced, the ominous words echoing in his mind.
Turning, he froze at the sight of a statue, disturbingly lifelike, its cold eyes staring blankly towards the horizon. Beneath it, the inscription read:
'Aspiron.
The One Who Fended The Great Calamity.
The Savior of the Village.
A Loving Husband to Mehenati.
A Caring Father to Perseus.'