Chapter 4: Echoes of Desire

Under the silvery embrace of the moon, a blood-soaked battlefield stretched as far as the eye could see. Two warring sects clashed with relentless fury, their cries of rage and despair echoing through the mountains. Flaming arrows illuminated the chaos, swords met in furious sparks, and bodies littered the ground—forgotten soldiers, brothers, and rivals who had perished for causes they barely understood.

On a hill shrouded in shadow, Maelvas stood, a ghostly figure watching the carnage below. His long white hair cascaded down his back, glowing faintly under the moonlight. His golden eyes scanned the chaos, dispassionately noting the ebb and flow of lives and strategies. The two sects fought as if the heavens themselves were watching, though in truth, only Maelvas observed them from his perch.

"A world where power reigns supreme, and the weak are but stepping stones for ambition," he murmured to himself. Then, as his gaze followed a young warrior falling to his knees, clutching at his mangled chest, he added, "Glory, honor, justice... hollow ideals forged to mask the greed for control. In the end, all paths lead to ruin."

The battle raged on, the cries of the dying punctuated by the roars of victorious warriors. Maelvas remained still, a distant observer of humanity's endless dance with death. He turned away from the scene without another glance, his feet carrying him silently through the darkness.

The distant roar of battle faded into silence as Maelvas reached a small village nestled in the valley. Lanterns cast a warm glow on the streets, illuminating the simple lives of the people. Merchants called out their wares in the marketplace, children laughed as they played, and the aroma of freshly baked bread wafted through the air.

Yet, as Maelvas walked through the village, his regal presence disrupted the mundane rhythm. Villagers turned to stare, captivated and wary of the stranger in their midst. His pristine white hair and golden eyes, paired with an aura of calm authority, made him an enigma.

"Who is he?" one whispered.

"Some wandering noble," guessed another, their tone laced with suspicion.

Maelvas paid them no mind, his steps unhurried and deliberate. He studied the surroundings with mild interest, noting the simplicity of their existence. As he passed a shrine dedicated to a local deity, he paused briefly, his eyes flickering toward the offerings placed there. The faint trace of incense mixed with desperation filled the air.

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Unbeknownst to Maelvas, a group of scruffy bandits had been watching him. Their leader, a burly man with a scar running down his cheek, grinned wickedly.

"Look at him," the leader said, his voice dripping with disdain. "Never seen a noble walking alone like that. Must be lost... or stupid."

His lackeys chuckled, emboldened by their leader's confidence. They waited until Maelvas reached a quieter part of the village before surrounding him, their blades glinting in the dim light.

"Hold it right there, rich boy," the leader sneered, stepping forward. "You're a long way from home. Hand over your valuables, and maybe we'll let you go."

Maelvas stopped, turning his golden gaze toward the bandits. His expression remained neutral, almost bored. "You assume I have wealth to give," he said softly.

The leader laughed. "Dressed like that? You've got more than enough to share. Now, stop wasting our time."

Maelvas tilted his head, his long hair shifting slightly in the breeze. "Walk away," he said, his tone calm but firm. "This will not end as you hope."

The bandits exchanged amused looks before drawing their weapons. "You talk too much, old man," the leader growled, lunging forward.

The clash was over before it began.

With a single fluid motion, Maelvas sidestepped the leader's attack and shattered his blade with a flick of his wrist. The others moved in, but Maelvas dealt with them effortlessly, his strikes precise and devastating. One bandit screamed as his arm was dislocated, another crumpled to the ground with his leg twisted unnaturally, and the leader found himself on his knees, clutching his broken hand.

Maelvas looked down at them, his expression as unreadable as ever. "You are fortunate I do not deal in death lightly," he said. "But you will not forget this lesson."

The villagers murmured to each other as they look at the sight both in fear and relief that those bandits have been rid of but.. a much bigger threat is now here.

He then turned and walked away, leaving the groaning bandits behind.

At the edge of the village, Maelvas encountered a small shrine nestled beneath a cluster of ancient trees. A woman knelt there, her hands clasped in prayer. Her face was pale and thin, her eyes red from weeping. Maelvas sensed her sorrow long before he saw her.

He approached her silently, his footsteps muffled by the soft grass. When she finally noticed him, she gasped and stumbled backward. "Who are you?" she asked, fear flickering in her voice.

Maelvas's golden eyes met hers. "A traveler," he said. "But I could not help but sense the weight of your grief. Tell me, child, what is it that burdens you so?"

The woman hesitated, her gaze darting between Maelvas and the shrine. Finally, she whispered, "I... I lost my child. She was taken by an illness, and no matter how much I prayed, the gods did nothing. I would give anything to bring her back."

Maelvas regarded her for a long moment. "Anything?" he asked softly.

The woman nodded, desperation shining in her eyes.

Maelvas stepped closer, his voice low and soothing. "What if I told you there was a way to have your child again? A way that does not require the mercy of gods who care nothing for your plight?"

Her eyes widened. "How? What do you mean?"

"I am a merchant of sorts," Maelvas explained. "I deal in desires, fulfilling the wishes of those who dare to pay the price." He extended a hand toward her. "All I ask is a small token in return—your soul."

The woman recoiled, her face pale. "My soul? What... what would happen to me?"

"Your life will remain unchanged," Maelvas said. "But upon your death, your soul will be mine. It is a fair exchange, is it not? The life of your child for the promise of your soul."

She stared at him, torn between fear and longing. Slowly, trembling, she reached toward his outstretched hand.

As her fingers brushed his, Maelvas smiled faintly. "Then let us begin."