Standing beside Burn, Morgan frowned, deepening the crease between her eyebrows like a well-worn map of worry. Looking at the young slave’s pitiful state, she couldn’t help but acknowledge that, surprisingly, Burn was right.
“Mana poisoning, right?”
Morgan nodded, her tone dripping with gravity. “Mm, but this one is mild... sort of like a light drizzle when you were hoping for a monsoon, across a long period of time. How could this be possible?”
“Mild?” Burn echoed.
“And bizarre. There’s a trace of corrupted mana in his system. But it’s not the usual amount, and the symptoms are unlike any other I’ve ever seen,” Morgan elaborated, her voice even sharper than the crease in her brow.
The young man could still walk—though it resembled a particularly uncoordinated dance—and he had a surprising amount of strength. Amazingly, he could still manage to speak, albeit sporadically. But the strangest twist? His memory was a complete jigsaw puzzle missing half the pieces.
He kept pleading with them to save someone—or was it some people?—from some unspecified peril, yet when push came to shove, he couldn’t quite recall what, exactly, that peril was. The irony of begging for salvation while being utterly lost himself was not lost on Morgan.
Oh, well, nothing says “I’m on top of my game” quite like being held captive and suffering from a bout of memory loss while simultaneously playing the role of a concerned hero. The man didn’t know who he was saving or from what, yet kept pushing.
“Will he get better if you purify the corruption? Can he say what he needs to say?” Burn asked.
Morgan wasn’t even sure if this man would still return to sanity even if she cured him now, not to mention his memory. So she shook her head.
Now, it was Burn’s turn to frown.
Escaping his owner, walking on the streets with no ability to even recognize why, yet keeping going, and going, and going. With this kind of drive, coupled with his inability to remember anything, it would just make sense if people would brush him away like someone mentally deranged.
He was literally someone falling through the cracks of the harsh world, invisible—
Because really, who stops to help the dazed wanderer without a clear name or a purpose?
The world treated him with the same gratitude one might reserve for a fly buzzing around a picnic. He could be the town’s secret hero—if only someone could remember his existence long enough to notice.
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Here’s a guy who’s clearly got his life's mission nailed down, albeit without a clue what that mission is. It’s not just tragic; it’s the ironic ballet of incompetence in a universe that seems to revel in tossing chaos at unsuspecting actors.
And yet, he keeps going. The burning question remains: is it courage, madness, or blissful ignorance? The answer? Probably a heady mix of all three, painfully beautiful in its relentless futility.
“We should still try, though,” Morgan said, her voice a mix of hope and skepticism. “This corruption has seeped so deep into him that I’m concerned my purification may resemble merely sprinkling holy water on a cursed artifact. So, naturally, the world tree seems like the ideal spot for hopeless cases like him.”
“Then, let’s depart,” Burn replied, glancing down at the man sprawled on the bed in one of the grand chambers of Wilderwood’s Capital Mansion. Burn turned, preparing for departure with the addition of one poor creature.
He looked at Finn, who quickly joined him for a walk. Burn took a deep breath, launching into a tirade of instructions, mainly about Yvain and the current state of the kingdom—because who wouldn’t want a thrilling briefing about impending doom? Let’s not forget the danger that lurked just beyond the corner.
“Investigate where this slave came from. It looks like he recently escaped—or was tossed aside like yesterday’s laundry because of his insanity,” Burn continued. The meticulousness of this shadowy force suggested they had a penchant for tidying up loose ends before they became troublesome.
How considerate of them.
“To assume they wouldn’t have a team ready to eliminate him is simply naive optimism and wishful thinking—”
“Ah—!”
“Mama?!”
Burn pivoted sharply, his earlier irritation now forgotten, a blur of motion even the likes of Finn, a Force Master, couldn’t entirely keep up with.
Morgan lay on the floor near the bed, having nearly toppled over in her fervent efforts to purify the young slave. Yvain was close by, visibly shaken, rushing to her side.
“I just turned away for a damn second—” Burn growled, anger painting his face as he approached, only to freeze at the sight of her alarmed expression.
“I saw something, Caliburn,” Morgan replied, her gaze locked on him. “My speculation last loop has been confirmed.”
He steadied her, helping her rise once again. “What did you see?”
Morgan hesitated, her eyes darting to the man on the bed. The very man they had coincidentally encountered on the streets of Inkia, a slave pleading for salvation—and from his memory, she prodded—
“The birth of a new Demon Lord.”
***
A pair of eyes flickered open on a weathered bench in a child’s playground, the bright colors of swings and slides juxtaposed against the encroaching shadow of something much darker.
Laughter and squeals filled the air with the innocent joy of childhood, creating a symphony of pure oblivion that danced around him like the fleeting echoes of a forgotten lullaby. He smiled softly, but not out of admiration for the cheerful chaos; no, that would be far too simple.
“You found me, Original Saint,” he murmured, his voice a blend of reverence and mockery, as if addressing a deity who’d misplaced their sense of humor.
Here he sat, cloaked in the innocence of the playground, a fortress of bliss.
Around him, parents watched, utterly unaware of the cosmic joke unfolding right under their noses. They might have thought he was just another weary adult admiring the scenery. Little did they know he was more like a prophet, waiting for the punchline amidst the joy.
“A change of plan, it seems.” Looking down at his palm on his lap, he softly clenched his fist. “Be my guest.”