On a quiet spring morning, as the sun struggled to pierce the thick canopy of branches in a distant forest, a boy of twelve moved nimbly among the trees. Dressed in a white robe with beautiful blue stripes that stretched to his knees, and a scarf covering half his face fluttering with every jump, one might mistake him for a ghost. He danced through the forest, sometimes stretching his body forward, other times backward, and at times flipping upside down before landing steadily on a branch ahead.
He paused on a tall tree, slowly removing his scarf to reveal his pale face and calm features, marred only by a look of childish frustration. Staring into the distance, he let out a tired shout: "It's not fair, Grandma! If I had a [SEAL] like you, I wouldn’t have lost to you!"
From a nearby tree, a hoarse laugh answered him: "This old woman beat you in the race and waited for you for half an hour!" With agility that belied her age, she leaped from one branch to another, landing lightly beside him with the day's firewood on her back. Standing next to him, she cast a glance at the village that stretched below the cliff where the tree stood. The boy sighed beside her, and she patted his shoulder gently, saying, "Let's head back now. The work won't wait. And don't forget, it's your turn for the house chores today."
The boy let out a long sigh: "Alright." He descended to the ground with heavy steps, abandoning the lightness he displayed moments ago, and walked like any ordinary person. As they made their way back, with firewood strapped to their backs, he asked with childlike curiosity: "Grandma, what might my parents be doing now in the land of kingdoms ? mmmhhh"
The grandmother’s face changed suddenly, and she nearly dropped the firewood on her back, before regaining her balance and said, "That old vagabond! Ever since you met him, you haven't stopped asking silly questions about that cursed land! Yesterday, you asked if they had wings, and at breakfast, you asked if they had a third eye! Do you think I have wings or horns like those in your imagination?"
Stomping the ground in frustration, he protested, "Grandma, Grandma..."
"Lucky him. If I met him again, I'd give him a beating so hard he'd grow horns and know better than to fill a child's head with such nonsense! And why do you still wear that junk on your finger?"
He looked at the rusty iron ring on his finger, smiling faintly, showing his admiration for it despite its wear. "It's a gift, ma. Look how it shines under the light." He held it up to her face.
She glanced at it from the corner of her eye before sighing hardly, "Ah, what did I do to deserve living with a madman who learns from an even crazier vagabond ?" and walked away leaving him behind.
"Maaa, wait for me!"
----
At the village gate, a stone arch stood tall, stretching high enough that anyone passing beneath would have to tilt their head back, straining to see where it met the sky. The arch was solid and weathered, hinting at an age far older than the village itself, while the outer wall that extended from it was sturdy, with stone blocks stacked firmly, creating a sense of quiet strength. Though not overwhelming, the scale of it all left an impression of protection, as if the village behind it was well-guarded from who-knows-what.
---
World Encyclopedia:
In this world, people were classified as either ordinary humans or the marked ones. The latter were born with a radiant seal somewhere on their bodies, taking various forms. This mark granted them high endurance and resistance to illnesses and poisons, as the grandmother had demonstrated earlier by winning the race through the forest. Usually, the marked ones were rare, and in some communities, they were almost non-existent. However, in this village, everyone had a distinct mark, except for the boy. He had been deprived of one. His grandmother once told him that this might be a blessing, contrary to what others thought, and that he might one day acquire a mark at the right time. All he had to do was be patient. Everyone knew she was lying to him, even the boy himself, but he bore no grudge against his fate. Though he wished he had pure blood like the villagers and could experience the life of strength and freedom, he accepted that not everything one desires comes to pass. After all, destiny is written in the heavens for reasons unknown to the people below. Some hidden wisdom is told there.
The marked or sealed ones considered themselves superior to ordinary humans, noble by their rarity and abilities. However, the villagers did not look down on the boy. On the contrary, they loved and respected him. As for the distinction between the two classes, it is said that six of the seven kings of the world were marked, except for one, who was the most peculiar and strongest of them all. History books and war chronicles ranked him among the three calamities, and he was called "The Hell's Steps" because he never left a battle without burning everything in his path. It was said that the seven kings possessed enough strength that even the weakest among them could move mountains and split seas. But these were just legends and tales passed down to the common folk, who foolishly believed that sitting on a throne somehow separated them from their human frailty. The boy, Glida, was always eager to ask the villagers returning from the outside world about news of the kingdoms and their kings and legends.
---
I ask myself, just like you, how could an ordinary human become a ruler in a world where strength is the measure of thrones? Who are the three calamities? Is the one imprisoned at the bottom of the sea one of them?
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
And the most important question, what is exactly the [SEAL]?
Let the events unfold to reveal the truth.
---
Ahh, what is the boy's name you ask ? Glida Ufitry.
The grandmother? Tuda Imass.
The village? Arzu.
---
Some time ago, there was another unmarked person in the village, and he was Glida's dearest friend before he suddenly disappeared. One day, an old vagabond arrived at the village from the outside and settled in its outskirts for quite some time. He lived off the villagers' leftovers and helped them with their tasks, in return for which they gave him what little he needed to survive. The boy liked the old vagabond because, like him, the man had no mark. He was the only person who had ever truly understood him.
Glida did not deny that his grandmother and the villagers loved and respected him, but they had never understood him. They always lived in different worlds. This was why, whenever he returned from gathering and selling firewood, he would prepare lunch for his grandmother and set some aside to take to the vagabond when he met him in the afternoon at the edge of the forest. They would exchange stories, and Glida would ask the vagabond about the world beyond the forest. The old man would tell him about the wonders and creatures he had encountered on his journeys before settling at the village.
No one knew the vagabond's real name. Even Glida, when he asked, was told that the man had no name. He preferred to call himself "The wanderer" because he had lost everything in life, and this was the title that best suited him. His appearance was unusual for a vagabond. He didn’t carry the foul smell of those living in squalor. His shiny white hair reached his shoulders, and his short beard, framed by a few wrinkles, hinted at a hard life. His knowledge was far from ordinary, so much so that the villagers called him "The crazy wanderer," but this didn’t bother him. He had once told Glida that titles reflect a person's current state and that the meaning behind a name holds hidden secrets—secrets that grow more significant as the name itself becomes grander.
The vagabond always addressed Glida with utmost respect, calling him "my lord." He would greet him with a strange salutation that fascinated the boy and made him laugh. He would place his left hand behind his back, the other on his chest, and bow before saying, "My greatest lord."
Glida enjoyed the vagabond's fantastical stories, even though his grandmother warned him daily about filling his head with nonsense. One day, as the two discussed the matters of their little kingdom, where Glida was the king and the vagabond his advisor, the old man presented the boy with a rusty iron ring he had likely found among the garbage. He said, "My great lord, your servant presents to you the heirloom of his family, this golden ring, as a symbol of our good intentions, honesty, and loyalty to you."
Glida received the gift with the haughty demeanor of a king and replied: "It is with Our utmost gratitude that We have accepted the gift which you, the wanderer, hast bestowed upon Us. Thou art now permitted to venture forth to Our illustrious troves of treasure and take from them that which thy heart doth covet." He gestured toward the food he had stolen from his grandmother’s house and brought to him.
The vagabond, bowing his head, said, "Your humble servant thanks you, my lord, but I am ashamed to stretch out my lowly hand to touch your treasures. But let me tell you, Sire, this ring you now wear on your gracious finger is a treasure inherited from my family. Our prophecy says that one day, a ruler will come, and this ring will open for him all the doors of the realms, making him the supreme king of all the lands. I see no one more fitting for that role than you, my lord."
Glida replied, "We have lorded over all, and thy trinket is but a bauble in Our grip. Yet, in Our magnanimity, We have deigned to embrace thy offering. Now, by decree of the crown, take thy fill from Our illustrious vaults, lest they brand Us a niggardly monarch unfit to rule."
Suddenly, the two of them burst into laughter. The vagabond began eating the delicious food from the grandmother’s kitchen, saying between bites, "Your acting was terrible. How could a great king accept a gift from a lowly servant?" took another generous bite and mumbled "However, I command your speech. Though it is still lacking"
The boy replied, laughing, "What do you know about kings? I was just trying to show my dignity to you as a one. hmf"
"I’ve read about them."
The two exchanged glances and laughed even harder. Their meetings were odd and amusing, and anyone watching them from afar would think they were both insane. But no one disturbed them. Even the grandmother would always keep an eye on them from a distance, clutching an angry stick in her hands. Though she knew some of her food was being stolen by the annoying boy, she was happy that for the first time, he had found someone who could make him laugh and play like other children.
Then one day, "The crazy vagabond" disappeared quietly, just as he had come. He left behind only the useless rusty ring and vanished.
---
At dawn the next morning, Glida opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Darkness still loomed outside the window to his left, though the stars had already faded. He threw off his blanket and got up, heading toward the bathroom made of beautiful wood and stone to begin his day by answering the nature's call.
After finishing, he walked to the dining table in the middle of the spacious room, close to the house's entrance. He found some dates and warm milk, evidence that his grandmother had already beaten him to the forest as usual. He stuffed his mouth with what was in front of him and then, feeling sluggish, made his way to the door, knowing he was late to join the race and would have to do the house chores instead.
He stepped outside and shut the door behind him. Looking toward the horizon, where white threads of dawn were beginning to appear, he took a deep breath of the refreshing spring air and exhaled deeply, saying to himself, "Let's see if that mark can help you against a strong boy like me." He looked at his weak muscles, reconsidered his words, and then covered his face with the scarf, leaving only his dark eyes visible.
With an excited smile, he kicked the damp grass-covered ground forcefully and darted off like a phantom toward the forest.