Chapter: The Birth of Weakness
Max floated in the endless void, the silence pressing in on him from all sides. The emptiness was suffocating, yet it gave him the clarity to reflect on his past. Memories surfaced, unbidden—his time as a mortal, when he was just a man with dreams and desires, before the god's power had twisted him into something unrecognizable.
He remembered the day he first felt invincible, the moment he realized he had the strength to crush anyone who stood in his way. At first, it was intoxicating—a drug that made him feel like a god among men. But with time, that power had consumed him, warping his mind until he saw only enemies, only threats. The lines between right and wrong blurred until he no longer recognized the man he had once been.
"How did I become this?" Max's voice echoed in the void, a mere whisper against the darkness. He had started with noble intentions, had wanted to protect those he loved, to make the world a better place. But somewhere along the way, he had lost sight of those ideals. He had become cruel, ruthless, punishing not only those who deserved it but also the innocent who had the misfortune of crossing his path.
"Those who deserved to die... they did. But the innocent... I failed them," he admitted to himself, the weight of his sins pressing down on him.
The god's voice, harsh and unyielding, replayed in his mind. The judgment, the punishment—it had all been deserved. But now, as he hovered in the void, awaiting whatever fate the god had in store for him next, he felt a flicker of something he hadn't felt in a long time: remorse.
But there was no time for self-pity. The god had cast him into the void to be reborn, to face the consequences of his actions in a new life. And this time, it seemed, he would not be the powerful being he once was.
Max's next life began in Bermau, a land known for its warriors, a place where strength and power were revered above all else. The Kirants, a proud and ancient tribe, had a history of producing the fiercest warriors, men and women who wielded magic and steel with equal skill. They were a people who believed that might made right, and their royal court reflected this in every aspect.
The royal court of Bermau was a grand hall, its stone walls adorned with the banners of past kings—each a legend in their own right. The air was thick with anticipation as the tribe gathered to witness the birth of the next heir, the child who was prophesied to lead them into a new era of greatness.
As the newborn's cries echoed through the hall, the chief priest stepped forward, his expression grave. He placed a hand on the child's chest, muttering incantations under his breath. The crowd watched in silence, their expectations high.
But then, something went wrong. The priest's eyes widened in shock, his face paling as he stumbled back from the child. "He is... he is mortal!" the priest exclaimed, his voice trembling. "This child has no affinity for magic, no connection to the mana that flows through our bloodlines. His body is weak, frail—unworthy of the Kirant name!"
A murmur of disbelief rippled through the crowd. The Kirants were warriors, born with magic in their veins, with the strength of ten men. To be born without these gifts was unheard of—a disgrace to the tribe.
The child's father, King Thalron, a towering figure of a man, his body rippling with muscle, stepped forward. His face twisted in fury as he looked down at the child—his son, the one who was supposed to be his successor. "A mortal? In my bloodline?" he snarled, his voice filled with contempt. "This weakling is no son of mine!"
Thalron's hand moved to his sword, the blade gleaming menacingly as he considered ending the child's life then and there. But as he looked into the baby's eyes—eyes that, despite their weakness, mirrored his own—a flicker of something stayed his hand. Perhaps it was pity, or perhaps the remnants of a father's love, but whatever it was, it prevented him from striking the final blow.
Thalron sheathed his sword, his face a mask of cold indifference. "This child is trash," he declared, his voice carrying across the court. "Unworthy of the Kirant name, unworthy of this tribe. I have no use for him. He will be given away, a gift to whoever will take him. And for the trouble, I will pay 500 gold to the one who takes this burden off my hands."
A stunned silence fell over the court. The Kirants were proud, and the idea of taking in a weak, mortal child was unthinkable. No one spoke, no one moved. They all looked to the ground, unwilling to meet the king's gaze.
Seeing their reluctance, Thalron's expression darkened. "Cowards, the lot of you!" he spat, his voice filled with disdain. "Very well. If none of you will take this wretch, then he will be sent to the Dreed people—those who are as worthless as he is. Let them deal with this... mistake."
Thalron gestured to his guards, who stepped forward and roughly lifted the child from his cradle. They carried him out of the court, past the silent, watching eyes of the tribe. The child, oblivious to the fate that awaited him, continued to cry, his small, weak voice barely carrying through the grand hall.
The Dreed people were the lowest of the low in Bermau. They were the ones without magic, without power or authority, mere slaves in the eyes of the Kirants. To be cast out among them was a fate worse than death for a Kirant. It was a life of suffering, of hardship, where survival was uncertain and death was a constant companion.
The guards marched through the barren outskirts of the kingdom, where the Dreed people lived in squalor, their huts barely holding together against the harsh winds. The sight of the Kirant soldiers sent the Dreed people scurrying in fear, but one old woman, bent with age and burdened by the weight of many years, stepped forward. Her eyes were clouded with cataracts, but they held a strange wisdom, a depth that spoke of many hardships endured.
The guards threw the child at her feet, as if he were nothing more than refuse. "Take this child," one of them sneered. "He's worthless, just like you. But the king has decreed that anyone who cares for him will receive 500 gold."
The old woman looked down at the child, her face unreadable. Slowly, she bent down and picked him up, cradling him in her frail arms. "I will take him," she said, her voice soft but firm. "He may be weak, but he is still a child. He deserves a chance, even if no one else believes it."
The guard sneered again, tossing a small pouch of gold at her feet. "Do what you want with him, old hag. He's your problem now."
Without another word, the guards turned and left, leaving the woman alone with the child. She looked down at him, her expression softening as she gently rocked him. "You are not weak," she whispered, more to herself than to the child. "You are strong. Stronger than they know."
The old woman had no family, no one left in the world. But as she looked at the child, she felt a strange connection, a bond that she couldn't quite explain. She decided then and there that she would raise him as her own, protect him from the harshness of the world as best as she could.
"I will call you by a name that carries strength," she murmured, her thoughts drifting to her past, to the names that had once meant something to her. "I will call you...Ray means a ray of of light. ."
And so, the child who was deemed unworthy, who was cast out by his own family, began his life anew among the Dreed people. But even in this harsh, unforgiving world, there was a glimmer of hope—a chance for redemption, for growth. For Ray, this was just the beginning.