Hope is like finding a key but not knowing which door it opens.
~Arianrhod, Goddess of Rebirth and Fate
The content of the Hell’s Seed vestige appeared to be an ancient script that was almost readable. It was strange, and Crow felt it was more like a smokescreen than anything intelligible. Pure gibberish used to hide something underneath. This might be effective to most people, but because of Crow’s bloodline, he realized he could completely recreate all the variations.
Resculpting his memory was something new and not something he’d ever thought to try until this puzzle appeared. The script wrapped the prize in layers of confusing text, but after observing for some time, he could unravel it line by line. It was the first time he’d seen a three-dimensional content within a vestige like this, and he lost track of time as he studied it and continually came closer to the prize within.
It was unknown how long he was at it, but when he heard a sound like breaking glass, he knew he’d beat it. The rest of the layers fell away, leaving a simple message. After reading it, Crow’s jaw hit the floor.
[Hell’s Seed is formed from the fallen heroes who fought against the Heavens. Nurture this seed well, and it will help create a Soulscape. Speak the mantra below if you wish to accept this gift, but know that if you die before this seed grows, your soul will merge with the seed like countless experts before you.
Mantra: We formed Hell from the ashes of Heaven’s fury.]
A Soulscape was like forming a world inside his soul and was something most cultivators would spend centuries trying to create. It took a powerful soul to even think about forming one, and if the description was accurate, then it was only a matter of time before his Soulscape appeared. Crow didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at this discovery. A treasure pulled from the mouth of calamity.
Benefits from a Soulscape weren’t always tangible because it depended on how the scape was built, nurtured, and refined. Crow only had a superficial knowledge of how they worked because there wasn’t much information in the library on them. Broken down, the benefits were a powerful protection against soul-based attacks, more power used in soul-based attacks, and last, it protected the soul from over-drawing the Source.
Resources were the key to forming an extensive Soulscape. The larger the area inside it, the more he could do with it. He had complete control over that space, but to do anything inside required resources—this included plants, metals, fire, water, and more. In his mind, only a fool would pass on this opportunity, but he wished he had more information. Soulscape wasn’t something he could just improvise. He wasn’t even sure how to refine something like that.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Still, he hesitated. It was the word ‘hell’ that stopped him from immediately speaking the mantra. After reading it a hundred more times, it convinced him the term was used to indicate an opposition to the Heavens—a common enemy.
Swallowing his fear, he spoke, “We formed Hell from the ashes of Heaven’s fury.”
Several long seconds passed, and the only change was the growing heat within the seed itself. Unable to see his own forehead, Crow didn’t notice that it was slowly pushing its way into his skull. Shortly after it entered his head, it felt like acid had entered his bloodstream, and he moaned in agony, lacking the power to scream or move. His entire body froze, unable to move, and he stared into the distance, unseeing. Tears of blood rolled down his face, leaving crimson lines on his now pale face.
He lost all conscious or rational thought as strange scripts, and the whispering of heroes past entered his mind and infiltrated his soul. Not only was he not able to see or recall where the seed itself disappeared, but it was also as if he completely lost his sense of self.
From his navel, crisscrossing lines formed. Smoke rose from his flesh as the lines crawled up his stomach while a few smaller strands dug towards his pubic region. Every Druid would recognize the pattern as Celtic knotwork, the distinct style created from a single line that looped back to itself. Anyone could recognize the design as that of a sapling. A small tree not yet tall enough to create its first leaf.
Crow didn’t know what happened outwardly. His focus was on the small dark space inside him surrounded by black flames. In that place, from the gray dust, life formed. A plant broke through the surface, and the lively little thing grew straight as an arrow as it aimed for the sky. Its growth stopped at about ten centimeters tall, but he could already sense a sort of majesty from it—a sapling whose life force practically thrummed within him.
Shortly after that, he was expelled from that place. All memories related to the formation, entry, and how the seed worked disappeared. It was as if it never happened. His bloodline should have made that impossible, and if it wasn’t for that, he wasn’t sure he’d remember that he was there at all.
Once clarity of mind returned, he realized his face hurt. Opening his eyes, he saw Otto’s smiling face right near his.
“Dummy. Fell.” Otto said, laughing at his joke. Crow realized that his splitting headache didn’t come from the vestige but from the faceplant he’d performed. Smashing his face against a stone floor wasn’t pleasant in the least.
Sitting up, Crow pulled up his shirt, wondering if what he’d felt was a dream or not, and when he saw the Celtic knotwork, he knew it was mirroring what he saw in that dark place. It somehow didn’t fit what he pictured a Soulscape to be, so he had doubts and apparent gaps in his memory. The entire thing was strange.
“Otto, hungry.”
Crow chuckled at the big guy’s simplicity. “Are you ever not hungry?”
The big guy shrugged. “Sleep.”
Shaking his head, Crow snorted in response. It was getting easier to understand this giant. He just meant he wasn’t hungry when he was sleeping, which was funny because it was most likely true.
“Alright, I’m hungry too.”
It had become almost second nature to avoid using his Source, and when he stood up, it was with his physical strength only. Lately, he shied away from using his Source and wondered if this fear was becoming a problem. Fear was the downfall of all cultivators, and if it took root, it might never let go. It was almost too laughable that his fear was the use of his Source. The irony was killing him. He needed to talk to Gavin because that old man would straighten him out.
“Clean face. Blood.” Otto pointed at Crow’s head.
Using the water basin and a towel, he scrubbed the blood off his face and joined the clan for dinner. Crow had spent most of the day dealing with Hell’s Seed. While he wasn’t totally sure what had occurred, there was a hope that it was a good thing.