Any prospect of an afterlife died with the gods a millennia ago, leaving only the Void behind, billions slumbered in it, their past memories gone, erased. Proofs of their lives marked by glorious deeds in the living world, fading or forgotten.
Erik Basara was such a soul.
He felt himself falling, floating, hovering, all the while remaining still in this empty, dark space. The Void offered his tortured mind one comfort: the promise of amnesia coming to him in hushed whispers.
'My life, my beliefs, my wyrd. All pointless.'
The thought refused to leave and kept his memories afloat, dying forgotten by all was the worst possible outcome for a Norse cultivator. Searing pain of regret persistently brought back the fragments that flew astray, the shame so great he could not forget.
That's when he saw it.
A mighty ashen tree stretching far beyond the Void gradually manifested. Or has it always been there?
'Yggdrasil?'
The tree that traveled spiritual, physical, and the empty divine realm, tying all realms together through invisible paths.
At its base, besides roots thick like a continent, three women stored, weaved, cut golden threads.
Fate Weavers, neither deities nor spirits, entities whose power outstripped gods of old, even the god of time himself. They were the agents of Fate.
'Why are the Weavers here?'
One such thread appeared before Erik, shining bright, linked to his bosom, the other end straightened as a Weaver pulled him over.
He felt himself travel hundreds, thousands of kilometers, or perhaps one meter. Space and time ruled not this place.
'These three, the dark veiled one should be Past; the grey veiled Present and the white veiled Future.' Their existence was legendary amongst mortals. How could he not recognize them? He felt honored by their presence, intimidated, however, did not doubt they were here, rare were the ones who'd doubt such scenery after death.
'What do they want from me?' He tried asking.
His mouth remained shut.
Hidden behind a dark veil, Past spoke, her voice a distant echo like whiffs. "Erik Basara, born as the 9th child of the Basara family who ruled Nurmen with an iron hand. Famous for their peerless mastery of the axe, ferocity in combat, and for repaying debts of blood."
Runes wafting about his golden thread laid bare his entire life to the Weaver who voiced it, as if to remind him of the shame.
How he had trained the axe and failed because something unnatural prevented his growth.
How his siblings shown disgust and mocked his poor talent.
How his best friend died.
"Although many more have and will suffer a worse fate, yours was indeed a life of suffering and injustice. Fated, for we were the one who crafted it through your actions and Fate's whispers."
That's how it was. One's fate was inescapable, fleeing would be akin to rowing against a storm. It wasn't the Weavers' fault it happened, they but weave what Fate ordered them.
The Weaver concluded, staring at him behind her black veil, Past and Future interrupted their work, similarly paying attention.
"Answer our question, Erik Basara. If you could walk a different path, if you could change your past, would you do so?"
Would he repeat his mistake to pursue axemanship and be bullied, and mocked for it?
Would he allow some dubious slaver to capture him?
Would he let someone else captain his own wyrd for another fifteen years, force him to fight in an arena without the glory and honor he was owed?
Although confused about why they came to him, humbled by their very existence, when the pressure that glued his mouth loosened, there was no hesitation in his voice as he uttered a sentence filled with certainty.
"Yes, revered Weavers. If such a thing is possible, I swear on my wyrd that I would take my destiny into my own hands. My path shall be one of struggle to reach the greatest height. I would claim the fame and glory I was denied and more."
"Bold words." Past smiled behind her veil, satisfied. "That much resolve will be necessary."
BOOM!
A resounding thunderclap shook the Void.
"Your oath is sealed," the three Weavers said, their figures blurred, fused, becoming one entity.
A massive rainbow thread appeared in their hands, encompassing the Fate of all Ulreon. "'Fate goes ever as Fate must.' That will no longer apply to any mortal. You will be free from our grasp, free to weave your own paths. But, Fate is ever-present. Without us, it offers infinite paths. None shall take more than one. Possibilities, not certainties any longer."
They paused, their gaze dreamy as if peering somewhere else, far, far away.
"It is time for us to decide our own Fate. We are to leave the boundaries of this world."
"What!? If you leave, won't the World end?" After the gods, those that supported reality itself had died, Fate Weavers were the only ones keeping it together.
"If the world turns to ashes, it will be by mortal hands, not by our departure. This future is not ours to weave, far more pressing matters require our attention. Of course, we won't be leaving Ulreon empty-handed. The Fate System will remain, keeping reality together until new gods arise or the world perish. And to increase the odds of a world on the verge of ruins, we have chosen you and a few other mortals we will send to the past."
The Weavers pulled, the rainbow thread moved backward, and the Void shook ever stronger.
"We speak to them as we speak to you now, through time and space."
Reality cracked, dissipated, shifted.
"Great will be your burden. Three gifts should ease it, though two of them must be earned through struggle. Be forewarned, it will not make you invincible. Assistance is all they will be. If you must weave your path, you will have to earn the right. Do not expect an easy journey. Should you thread fiercely, boldly, honorably, should you remain true to your oath and to your wyrd, then these gifts will serve you well. Err and doom shall await. For you and perhaps others."
Present became future, past became present.
'Wait, I've still got questions!' He thought, an unknown force forbidding talk. Erik felt pulled somewhere before he could ask anything else related to this matter.
Why were the Fate Weavers leaving the Creation? Who would be sent to the past along with him? Who were supposed to be the new gods?
"All shall be revealed in time if need be," they responded as one, reading his thoughts. "Go Erik, live the life you've been denied, strengthen your wyrd, accomplish great deeds, hold your head high, and perhaps one day we shall meet again."
With those last words, everything faded to black.
***
Erik felt his consciousness float in an endless blank space, dissipate, wander…, again.
And again, he refused to forget.
A light came to him. It buzzed like a thousand thunder, yet its warmth, coziness and softness told of its true intentions. It entered his bosom, easing his tortured mind and ethereal body.
He bathed in its comfortable embrace as it fused with him.
Hours, days, perhaps months passed or not at all.
Time had no power in the Void.
At some point, in the absolute darkness of this place echoed noises, subtle at first, then louder, stronger, to the point he could distinguish them despite his hazy mind; people screaming, explosions, steel against steel.
'So much noise.' He instinctively knew what was happening. He'd seen and heard them too many times. 'War…, again? Even in this place?'
The Void tightened and flexed as a powerful pull dragged him away from the drowsiness.
He resisted it at first, punching whatever was trying to threaten his rest, only to hit something akin to a durelite wall, the most resilient metal under the heavens.
As he unwillingly exited this peculiar place, the sounds got clearer. Beaming light appeared. He could see it though he had no eyes!
Or so he thought.
'What is this?' Something grabbed him, he could feel it! 'This makes no sense.' Curious, he sought to see, wary of the light. The blurry scenery soon became crystal clear. Snow turned bloody red, gore was everywhere.
Broken shields, axes and swords.
Then pain.
SLAP!
Someone had just slapped his butt!
'You bastard!' He wanted to say, though instead of proper words, baby wails came out of his mouth. 'By the Wildfather…, what is this sorcery?'
"Congratulations, Matriarch," the man holding him said with respect before passing the baby to his liege. "What name will you bestow upon the young master?"
The person he was talking to towered over him, her red braided hair a mix of natural color and the blood of her enemies.
She only had fur covering her back and a brassier to keep her breasts from being a nuisance. Despite the cold weather, she wore close to no armor, her stern face riddled with scars like the rest of her toned body signaled her enemies she could allow them such handicap.
If handicap it was.
"Erik," she said, her lips curving slightly, "Erik Basara." Even though she had just given birth, the Matriarch, Skadi Basara, looked fine. It was a menial task at best for her who was a rank 11 cultivator and reached the current pinnacle of cultivation.
Erik…, was shocked!
'It worked! Thank the revered Weavers. It worked! Wait, is that pretty scarred woman truly my mother? She has never bore such a tender smile while staring at me with her icy blue eyes before.'
Skadi's smile faded as if she remembered it was inappropriate. Soon her face became stone cold.
She finally resembled the mother Erik knew.
"A king's name," the man beside Skadi replied, turning towards the army, still fighting thousands of swordsmen invaders to shout, "All hail Erik Basara, the ninth and last child of this generation!"
His loud voice echoed above the sounds of battle. An explosion resounded as if to fill the lack of cheers.
No one ever acclaimed the accursed ninth child who was always the one with a poor talent for axemanship, however, the reason lost to time; it was still a custom to give birth to them.
And tradition was sacred in the Basara clan.
A war, his birth, the Matriarch, these events were perfectly similar to what he had heard about his birth.
If he remembered correctly, at the time of his birth, the Basara clan was repelling the assault of the Celeste Empire on the Keza Beach, and would eventually succeed once the Matriarch seriously joined the fray.
Those Celeste pricks had picked the day of his birth to invade, thinking Skadi Basara would be weakened.
Turns out, they were wrong.
That woman was a force of nature, the Matriarch of the strongest family in the northern continent, the ruthless ruler of Nurmen, better known to her enemies as Skadi Bloodaxe.
"Matriarch!" A shieldmaiden in heavy armor hurried by her side, "We are losing ground! If we do nothing the Empire will—"
Skadi patted the shieldmaiden's shoulder, reassuring her soldier as she handed Erik over to the old man.
Her regal demeanor was such that everyone around her closed their mouth, certainly an effect of her cultivation art and natural charisma.
With her other hand, she grabbed aside. A great axe obediently flew into her palm: Mordrogen, also called the Last Blade.
Stories said that no one that has seen its blade heading their way ever survived.
Exaggeration or a fact? No one dared refute the stories.
Skadi's figure disappeared, moving so fast the naked eye couldn't catch a glimpse of her.
If Erik still had an ounce of doubt in him that this was an illusion, the following event proved otherwise. In a mere second, the hundreds of ships proudly flashing the Celeste's flag turned to twigs.
'Mother truly was, no, is a monster,' Erik thought. 'That heaven defying strength…, there is no doubt. It's her.'
He only knew three people capable of such destruction, but only one who looked like his mother.
Now certain he had come back in time, his tiny fists clenched as hard as a baby could.
A torrential storm of emotions surged within him, rekindling the growing embers of ambitions he had kept even in death.
'This is it, the chance to seize glory, honor—'
At that moment, golden threads appeared in his vision, weaving symbols.
—
[Fate Quest: Divine Seed]
Objective: Become the first new god of Ulreon.
Time Limit: None.
Rewards:
1) Control over the Fate System.
2) 1 000 000 wyrd.
3) Divine Saga [Allfather]
—
'And perhaps something more, it seems.' Erik's gaze flashed with ambitions.
He guessed those who had regressed like him have received the same quest.
No one knew how to become a god, yet, otherwise, the heavens would not have been empty for a thousand years.
'This is making my Norse blood boil. I cannot wait to start.'
Next to him, the old man known as Caliber Wolf and the ninth son's newly appointed butler saw something in the babe's deep icy blue eyes brimming with determination, then…, then those eyes slowly closed.
Caliber wondered if he was imagining something. There was no way such spirit came from the cursed ninth child, less so as a baby.
'But first, I need to catch some sleep,' Erik thought.
He was so tired. Was a baby's body always this feeble? Training would have to wait until he grew up more.
Erik Basara, ninth and last child of this generation, fell asleep in his butler's arms, amidst joyous banging of shields and cries of victory.
_______
Lore Extract:
"I have seen the unseen paths, heard the cries unheard, and touched upon an intangible realm. Ulreon is filled with mysteries left by those that came before, the deceased gods, and Fate itself. One, in particular, has occupied my mind for over a century: why is the ninth child of our family cursed? No matter my strength and wisdom, I've yet to find my answer."
—Skadi Bloodaxe