The farmer had been toiling away at his crops for years now, until silver streaked his beard and hair, and his back turned hunched with age. His bones creaked and groaned, but his soul was still alive and kicking. For as long as his spirit stayed intact, he would keep working, keep living, and keep doing what he had done his whole life. And he didn't feel bad about it at all.
Over the years, he found that most people pitied folks like him, forced to tan and tire under the all-encompassing sun; but none of them understood that he didn't feel sorry about it at all. He had no debts to pay. He had no crops to yield to some lord. He simply had grandchildren that he wanted to take care of, especially since their parents weren't there anymore. It had been a long time since someone had pitied him, and he had felt glad for it; but he felt a warmth spring in his heart seeing a traveler passing by, something he hadn't witnessed in ages.
The old farmer looked up from examining his crops and waved to the traveler he saw in the path he and his wife had carved above the terraces so that people could pass by in the days when this village was known. The traveler looked odd, with thick clothes and black attire in such a warm, temperate climate. The sedge hat shielded him from the sun, which made the little skin he revealed look as pale as moonstone.
"Young man!" The farmer shouted, waving enthusiastically, ambling near the path the traveler walked on. He made sure to use the Grand Xia dialect since the senior looked like one of the celestials from the Grand Xia. He beckoned the traveler to jump down from the path. "You look tired, traveler. Come, rest and have some tea with this old man."
The traveler halted in his tracks, and the crow that circled around him perched on his shoulders. He looked at the old man, bowing his head respectfully and hopping down from the path to land unusually softly into the inside of the terrace, not splashing any of the water in the process. "Senior, I seem to be lost. Surely, you know where we are right now?"
The old man smiled, shaking his head, something mournful glimmering in his graying eyes. "Ah, I almost forgot. How could it be that anyone in the world remembers this place now? Back in the old days, these terraces used to be called the 'Emerald Stairs of Bathala.' Everyone in the world knew of this archipelago. But now, nothing. Perhaps, they have forgotten about the great people of Anikauga. Perhaps, it has to do with the war, too. We respected the Great Xia, to the point where we sent our sons and daughters there to support them as warriors, craftspeople, and merchants. But none of them came back."
The traveler only stared at him, a glint of sympathy in his flint-like eyes. The old farmer waited for him to say something, at least explain more about his situation, but when the silence was prolonged enough, the farmer realized he would get no answer. The new traveler seemed to be well-mannered, but not a very talkative youth.
"Anyhow, since this place is such a remote, unknown island, how did you get here by accident?" The old farmer asked, not suspicious at all, but rather curious. Perhaps, he had fallen asleep on the wrong ship.
"The ship I was on was swallowed by a wave. Got washed up here." The traveler answered bluntly. The old man could tell that he had spent one too many years in the military with that report-like, short tone of his. He looked the traveler up and down and noticed that his clothes were indeed wet, and the coattails of his ripped-up cloak seemed to be splashing his rice with specks of seawater.
The old man yelped with surprise, hurriedly ushering the young man out of the terraces. At this rate, he would be stunting the growth of his rice, and he needed as much as he could so that he could send it to his only living relative overseas and feed his other deceased child's kids.
"Come on, it's unhealthy to be soaked with cold seawater when the sun is at its apex. You'll get steamed like a crab at dinner-time!" The old man remarked, pushing the traveler lightly into his small house that was thatched with banana leaves and straw.
The traveler stepped reluctantly on the mat weaved from rattan and seagrass, drying off his shoes and laying them respectfully to the side of the mat. The crow that was perched on his shoulder just a few seconds before squawked as it hovered in place, wiping its talons on the mat before perching comfortably on one of the bamboo couches.
"Sit, sit, I'll brew some cold tea. Fetch yourself some dry clothes from that wardrobe over there, and change in that room, not the one opposite it. That's where my grandchildren are sleeping."
The traveler with the sedge hat obeyed, gently opening the wardrobe and selecting a set of robes. Surprisingly, they were just his size, and fit him well. He looked around the small house. He saw no one that could fit these clothes yet, or anymore; the old man was shrunk with age and the sleeping kids had yet to grow.
He flipped the neatly folded robe over, front facing the floor, and saw a familiar design on the back. An emblem of cerulean blue and deep, rusted gold; weaving together in different shapes to make the symbol of a mighty dragon coiling around a spear. It was an ember that fell on the cold flint that was the traveler's heart. The traveler's chest burned with something even he himself couldn't identify. He clutched the robes tightly, before going into the room to change from his wet, ink-stained clothes.
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The immortal had never felt like a grandpa before. Grandpas had something paternal about them– something fatherly that immortals could never even come close to imitating, with the glacial godhead they owned that turned them into something purely inhuman.
But here, right now? He had felt, for the very first time, like a father taking care of his kids. Like an elderly mentor, or a mentoring uncle. Perhaps it was just because of the apron that he draped on top of his usual clothes, perhaps it was because the usually cold Endless Forest had felt just a little bit warmer today, but he felt something beating in his heart that had never been there before, something that faintly beat when his disciple Xifeng had referred to him as "older brother."
The immortal set down the meal he had prepared for Xifeng and Song carefully on the table, faintly smiling with pride at how good the noodles looked. Xifeng and Song would surely like them. He pushed both of the bowls to his disciples and gave them each a pair of chopsticks. He beamed as they started eating, and looked up to see their reactions to how delicious it tasted–
A retching noise ensued. Xifeng scurried to the washroom, hurriedly throwing up the medicinal noodles that the immortal had worked so hard to brew. Song's reaction was subtler, but the immortal could still see it clearly– a shift in his face, and a gulp in his throat that suppressed the bile rising up.
The immortal gritted his teeth. Or maybe he was just being too sentimental in the heat of the moment, he thought to himself. Kids were still kids, and brats remained brats. He didn't even know why he bothered to cook his disciple Xifeng a good meal.
"I suppose you don't like the food, then?" The immortal said, his tone sweet, but unusual sounding when paired with the noise of his teeth grinding.
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Xia Song slowly shook his head. "Not at all, laoshi. The food is quite good." He lied through the skin of his very teeth, but his expression and body language were genuine enough, which caused the immortal to relax his tightening muscles.
"I'm glad someone in here has good taste," The immortal smiled. He glared towards the washroom door. "But I must apologize about this disciple of mine. With her brash personality, she has surely caused you trouble and frustration with her crude and vulgar behavior." Xifeng came out of the washroom, wiping the vomit from the corners of her mouth.
"Big brother, you can't defame me in front of your new disciple.!" Xifeng protested indignantly. The immortal tsked, shaking his head.
"Then don't do things that are worth defaming. Simple." The immortal said, shrugging his shoulders. He picked up Xifeng's bowl of noodles, examining it closely. "No matter how disgusting it tastes, this is the only food you'll have before your daily training regimen, disciple." Xifeng froze at the mention of her daily training regimen. Sweat dripped down her neck just thinking about it. The days under the mercy of the sage ghosts were lighter training than the monstrosities her teacher pushed upon her.
She took the bowl from the immortal's hands, and without even using her chopsticks, ate straight from the bowl and finished it in a few minutes. Song looked at her, shocked that she could even stomach such a concoction. She wiped the corners of her mouth and looked at Song with what Song thought was at least a semi-crazy look in her eyes.
"Don't be surprised. If I were you, I'd eat that. It'll be hell from here on out."
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The scent of the incense heavy with musk blocked out the smell of blood quite nicely, the apprentice observed. He was garbed in light linen robes that allowed easy, swift movement; the perfect beginner clothes to practice the martial arts and study the technology that his master spoke about.
It was already 3 years since he had joined one of the most prestigious academies for Djinn hunters and scholars, and 2 years since he had managed to catch the attention of one of the grand teachers— but still, still there was more to learn. He found new things to learn each day, which is why he agreed with his master when his master told him he was not yet ready to hunt down even a common ghul. He had seen one before, with its eyes that didn't face forwards, with sharp tusks that could impale if needed; terrified at what he had seen.
As he walked on the path around the courtyard he always took to his classes, he noticed that one particular student was staring at one of the paintings that hung on the wall. He looked towards it and nodded at his fellow student's awe. He must have been new here. He stared at the painting like that student once too, mesmerized by the sheer power the painting exuded.
The painting depicted one of the legendary alumni of the academy; one of the few that had ever managed to attain such high standing and prestige in the world beyond the reaches of their vast Western kingdom.
She was clothed in grand attire, but both of them knew that true Djinn hunters always kept armor under their clothes. Her dark skin was only allowed to be seen through the narrow aperture of her shawl, which allowed her to see. The alumni's gaze seemed to pierce beyond the painting, observing the school grounds closely; his master had told him that her painting had the same effect an evil-dispelling array worked— any ordinary devil that caught even a little bit of her shawl in their eyes would be struck heavy with fear.
"She looks mesmerizing, doesn't she?" He remarked, stopping to stand beside his fellow student.
The student paused. "She? The subject of this painting is a she?"
He laughed. He had thought the same when he had first seen the painting also. "Yes, she is a woman. One of the most powerful graduates of our school." He said proudly. His master had told him that she was the sort of hunter that did deeds worthy of fables in her name; slaying all kinds of demons and devils.
"Where is she stationed now?" The student asked.
"One day, she went to the Grand Xia. She only comes back occasionally, but recently... We haven't any word from her." He sighed, shaking his head. Though she was a great hunter, she really did whatever she wanted. Some even rumored she had kids from a foreign man there, marrying outside of her own kingdom. "She's too free-spirited."
"Ah... People like us really can't tell what goes on in the minds of geniuses like her. Perhaps she has bigger purposes in mind." The student remarked. He looked towards his fellow peer; for a new apprentice fresh out of the streets, they sure were sharp.
"I guess so." He agreed.
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The immortal observed through the window the shadows of both of his disciples retreating from the gates to hunt spiritual beasts. He smiled to himself, shaking his head. They were growing every day, growing used to their plum blossom pole training and arduous target practice. It reminded him of the Herald of Light when she started military training.
His gaze became farther and farther away as he began to sink into his own thoughts. Even when both his disciples weren't visible anymore, he still stared outside the gate.
How long, until it was time?
He took his gaze away and walked to the sitting room. He lifted the carpet and pulled the loose floorboards, peeling them back to reveal a dusty chest. He opened the casket cover and gazed at the familiar sight of the silvern spear. He knew it wasn't his destiny to wield it. The immortal stared at it for a while, the shine of the ornate handle of the spear and the blinding pearl luster of its blade reflecting in his eye.
How long until it was time?
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2189 years ago...
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The blacksmith had finally made it. In the heart of her workshop, she had concentrated iron from the blood of countless immortals, demons, and sages alike. The blacksmith didn't know how many people it took to make this. Perhaps hundreds of thousands, if not millions. But still, the immortals, the sages, and the demons had survived, just barely. It was a failed attempt of purging from all sides. The immortals sought to "purge" the demons and the sages from the world, and all of the other sides were thinking the same thing; they needed to kill every other power except for them.
The blacksmith chuckled to herself. In the end, mad wars like that made quite a profit for her. She had scrounged and squeezed at least a few hundred thousand buckets of blood from the bodies and the rotting soil; processing it in her workshop. Her work was a wretched thing, but it made good weapons. Weapons that even the gods would envy. She grinned. That was why she decided not to pass this cursed work to anyone else.
These two weapons would be enough. No other weapon like this pair needed to be made ever again.
She gave both of the worked steels one last strike. Her hammer had already ceased working long ago. That was alright; as the work progressed, she hit upon the molten metal with her fist, and though her hand burned and bled with wounds, she couldn't seem to bring herself to care. This was what being a craftsman was. Continuing your work, ceaselessly and tirelessly, without any rest at all.
She doused both of the finished blades in water fetched from only the finest springs of the northern mountains. She lifted both of the blades, taking in the work that ate the years of her immortal life away from her. She had spent decades on these weapons, but they would be used for centuries.
One was a spear, and the other a sword. If you asked her why she made them a spear and a sword, she wouldn't be able to answer correctly. The answer closest to being correct would be 'It came to me in a dream.'
She laughed to herself; if anyone heard her, they would think she was mad. Perhaps she was. But she knew what she had made.
"I've done it," She remarked calmly to herself, the sound of her wretched voice echoing within her own workshop. "Finally, finally. A pair of weapons that can execute a god."
If there was any meaning in life for her, this would be it. She knew then— she had done everything she needed to do. She was done with her story. All that was left was to finish the handles. And then after all this time, after these hundreds of years, she could rest. Her immortality could finally be rid of her.
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Present day...
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The siblings had only dreamt of war these past few months. They knew why. These were premonitions, things the gods had sent their nation for a long, long time. Even in this tiny village, people had visions left and right; almost all were minor.
They knew what they were. After all, who was favored more by the gods than the people of Anikauga? Even though they seemed like a small nation, it was only because they had people scattered throughout the four corners of the world, stationed in nations upon nations, serving them with their visions or with their craft.
Their warriors were sought after even by the immortals of the Grand Xia, their artisans fostering works that moved the hearts of kings from far away kingdoms, their craftsmanship in metallurgy and carpentry only matched by the kingdoms of the West, and their visions fabled to always hold true.
Their grandfather had told them both that they should still be humble, nevertheless. So they were. But grandfather sometimes told lies. They also knew that to be true. So when their grandfather told them that their dreams were not visions, they first believed him and then became skeptical.
Experiencing the visions again now, they knew that their grandfather had told a lie once more. The siblings tossed and turned in their sleep, groaning as their eyes, though closed, rolled left and right, up and down. Even if they were restless, they were still fast asleep. They had no way to know that their premonition from months past was coming true right this moment, in the form of a black-garbed figure and his ominous crow— its cry something they had heard in the back of their minds for months and months.
They had no way to know that the cloaked man they had dreaded was now in the room beside them, wearing their brother's own clothes, sporting the skin of a traveler that needed to be tended to. Sleep held them fast to blindness as if to prove that though they were favored with visions from the gods themselves, they couldn't act on what the Fates had written for them.
The siblings had told their grandfather so many times; "His name, his name is the Black Galespear. Lolo, lolo, remember this. He'll be clad in all black, lolo. Don't welcome any traveler into our home for as long as you can." But as far as their grandfather knew, these were the delusional ramblings of young children. He didn't heed their words.
They had no way to save their grandfather from what was to come.