The tension in the room was palpable. Elder Rujik, the head of the security council, cleared his throat, drawing the attention of everyone present. His fierce expression, framed by a black and reddish beard that appeared to burn like embers, only emphasized his authority. Scars dotted his head and face, where his beard couldn't grow, evidence of a life forged in battle and conflict.
"There are always two sides to every narrative," Rujik began, his voice deep and commanding. "We cannot let hope blind us to the realities we face. Consider, for a moment, the possibility that the being we see before us may be capable of bypassing the winged deity's screening arrays. The peace we enjoy in this sanctuary is rare—it's no small feat to remain hidden from the rest of the realms. To find this sanctuary, one must be guided by a spirit beast. Yet here stands a child who has bypassed the need for such guidance."
His piercing gaze fell upon Naria, who held the sleeping child—her son, Niu—in her arms. "This child doesn't possess the blessing of a deity. Instead, he's used his connection to his mother to slip past the sanctuary's defenses."
Naria, aware of the truth in Rujik's words, remained silent. She glanced toward the other council members, hoping for their support. The sanctuary's entry points constantly shifted, and only those blessed by the winged deity could merge with a spirit beast and gain access. Any trespasser carried by a spirit beast would see it vanish as soon as they entered. Only those chosen by the deity were granted this sanctuary's protection.
The child stirred slightly, still asleep, when Rujik spoke again. "We must seal the memories of the child's past until we are certain of the purpose that brought him here."
Elder Orimudi, an impeccably dressed man who appeared to be in his late eighties, sat upright in his chair. The insignia of seven stars encircled on his robes marked him as a headmaster of the sanctuary. He was known for his aloofness and general disinterest in council affairs—except when his personal research was under scrutiny. However, the idea of sealing the child's memories stirred a rare outburst from him.
"I cannot allow such barbaric measures," Orimudi snapped, his eyes blazing with unexpected energy.
His reaction surprised the council. It was common knowledge that Orimudi only cared about his own projects, rarely involving himself in discussions unrelated to his research. His sudden fervor was uncharacteristic, but his protest held weight.
Rujik's face remained stern, but the smugness in his earlier statement about the sanctuary's defenses lingered, hinting that he knew more than he let on.
Orimudi continued, "Who can imagine the marvels that this child, from another world, may possess? We call this sanctuary a haven, but in truth, it is little more than a hideaway that we will eventually outgrow. Our resources are finite. The opportunity we have been presented with—a child from another dimension—might never come again. If we ration every last resource, perhaps we'll last a millennium, but what then?"
The sanctuary's life was one of peace, free from illness or war. Healing magic could reattach limbs, and the residents aged slowly. On average, they lived for around 800 years, and children were a rarity. Less than five percent of the population were under fifty years old, the traditional age of adulthood. Orimudi's warning—that their resources wouldn't last forever—resonated with the council.
"We used to live on the entire planet," Orimudi reminded them, "but this sanctuary was our last resort. We must strive for more than just survival."
For the older members of the council, Orimudi's words touched a sensitive nerve. Most of them were first-generation refugees, descendants of those who had escaped annihilation during the Great Boundary Creation War. Their ancestors had fled their homeland to settle in this new world, only to face rejection once again.
"I fought to get us here," Rujik growled, his hand pointing to the battle scars on his body. "The winged deity sacrificed itself to bring us to this sanctuary. We must not repeat the mistakes that led us into hiding."
The room fell silent, the weight of Rujik's words heavy in the air. Everyone knew what he was referring to: when the original dragon had built its soul-entrapment array, countless realms had been reduced to wastelands. Their inhabitants became the first harvest, their souls consumed by the dragon in its attempt to break through to the deity realm.
The winged deity, a towering figure of light with four radiant wings, had once been the creator and protector of the lower realms. But during the battles with the dragon's generals, the sky had turned red, the seas boiled, and the land itself had withered. The deity had died in battle, betrayed by those closest to it.
Now, in the sanctuary, the memory of that betrayal lingered—an unhealed wound, a reminder of the fragility of their peace.