A jagged, visceral tear ripped through the fabric of space, and from it, a man plummeted. His dark-skinned form, with skin as smooth as jade, was framed by long, silky black hair cascading freely down his back. Despite the nobility his features suggested, he appeared anything but regal at this moment.
Terrible wounds marred his body, each emitting a sinister hiss as they oozed black tendrils of smoke. His once-dignified attire now lay in tatters, soaked in the dark and glistening hue of his own golden blood.
He landed with a jarring thud in a vast, isolated grassy field, far removed from any recognizable place. The shock of his arrival sent pain coursing through him, and he instinctively clutched a particularly grievous wound on his stomach, his face contorted with the effort to endure the agony.
As the man writhed in pain, a few drops of his blood, tainted by an ominous darkness, splattered onto the nearby soil. The once-vibrant grass, responding with a thirst for sustenance, eagerly absorbed the golden liquid, growing visibly larger with each passing moment. Yet, this hunger was insatiable, and the malevolent essence within his blood corrupted the blades of grass. In a matter of seconds, they withered and crumbled, choked by the darkness they had absorbed.
Time passed, during which the man, still disoriented by his surroundings, fought to prevent his injuries from worsening. Several agonizing hours later, he exhaled a small, victorious sigh. He had succeeded.
Gradually, the wounds that marred his body began to close, though their progress was hampered by a sinister substance seemingly determined to thwart their healing. Remarkably, the man showed little concern for these wounds.
Under the moonlit, starry sky, he emitted a bitter, humorless laugh, his eyes welling up with tears. "The Great Observer," he scoffed, "brought low by his own Master." The tears flowed freely, unimpeded by his pride.
In the quietude of that desolate field, he pondered the turmoil he had just endured—the loss of family, friends, and home, the cataclysmic battle that had unfolded, and the shocking truths he had been forced to confront. Each moment only served to erode his will.
As time drifted by, the Observer remained motionless on the ground, a testament to his inner turmoil. Finally, he forced himself upright, his wounds hissing as they oozed more of that sinister miasma. He inhaled deeply and emitted a laughter that seemed to dispel his own treacherous thoughts, infusing him with renewed determination. His eyes, once clouded, now gleamed with determination as he turned his attention inward.
His injuries, tainted by his Master's law of degradation, would be difficult to heal. However, as long as he was willing to invest the time and wear down his Master's law with the strength of his own laws, these wounds would eventually mend. What truly weighed on his mind was the curse his Master had cunningly imposed upon him before he could escape.
"A great disaster," the Observer muttered to himself. He was no stranger to curses, having encountered them before, and he knew several methods to dispel them. However, the curse his Master had inflicted upon him was reinforced by powerful laws, making it far from a straightforward matter to remove. Nevertheless, there was a solution: passing it on to someone else.
The concept appeared simple in theory, but the practicality was a much harder ordeal. Curses like the one he bore could only be transferred to individuals upon whom they could wreak a certain level of devastation. In this case, that meant likely death, and not just for one person.
The Observer wrestled with his conscience, torn between the weight of his morality and the urgency of his own survival. He couldn't help but mock himself for being a 'moral cultivator.' 'No wonder you were so easily defeated,' he chastised himself.
Ultimately, he made a decision. This time, he would prioritize his own well-being and pass the curse onto another. Simultaneously, he resolved to keep a vigilant watch on those affected and do his best to alleviate the disaster that would ultimately befall them.
He clapped his hands decisively. "All right, three tasks to accomplish. First, heal your injuries. Second, pass on the curse and support those you burden with it. Third," he narrowed his eyes in unwavering determination, "escape this world."
The third objective took precedence. His Master would undoubtedly hunt him down, and remaining in this world when that happened would spell his ultimate demise. In the back of his mind, he added a silent fourth task: 'Find a secure way back home.'
With his newfound objectives firmly established, the Observer felt a surge of determination coursing through him. Now, all he needed to do was locate the nearest city, and that, curiously, was the easiest task at hand.
Seated cross-legged on the ground, he inhaled deeply, centering himself, and unleashed his divine sense. In a matter of seconds, it expanded, enveloping several kilometers, its scope increasing with each heartbeat. A barrage of miscellaneous information flowed into his consciousness – an anthill nearby, a westward-running river, and other details – but he effortlessly disregarded them. It was a skill honed through mastery of his divine sense, allowing him to focus solely on detecting signs of human life and civilization.
Before long, on the distant horizon, his divine sense brushed against the outskirts of a city. After marking its location, he retracted his divine sense until it spanned a radius of one mile in every direction. With resolute determination, he opened his eyes and rose to his feet. It was time to set his plans into motion.
As he embarked on the lengthy journey toward the city, the Observer muttered to himself, 'I'm going to need a name.' Contemplating numerous possibilities and discarding them one by one, he eventually settled on a name that resonated with him. A faint smile touched his lips as he spoke it aloud. "Reynard."