Despite his uneventful life, Pacificus found contentment in his daily routine. His expansive farm kept him occupied, and the bounty of good food he harvested brought a quiet satisfaction. Though he lacked the funds to hire farmhands, he rarely spent the copper coins he earned from his harvests. After practicing his sword swings, he turned his attention to his crops.
He began with his golems, ancient sentinels of earth and stone. With a gentle command, one golem lay on its belly, revealing a lush harvest of carrots and potatoes on its broad back. The sight filled Pacificus with pride.
"They seem to be growing well," he remarked, a smile touching his lips. He had seven golems, all inherited from his father, who had often spoken of their origins with reverence.
He moved toward the river next. The moment his feet touched the water's edge, the tranquility shattered. A massive creature surged from the depths, its rows of razor-sharp teeth gleaming in the light. Its whiskers, longer than its body, trailed menacingly as it lunged at him. The creature's body, four meters long and a meter wide, cast a formidable shadow.
But Pacificus did not flinch. Without a moment's hesitation, his hand moved with practiced precision. He swatted the creature's giant mouth, redirecting its force away from him. The sheer speed of his movement created a sonic boom that echoed through the surroundings, rustling the plants and sending ripples through the water at his feet.
It was the skill his mother had bestowed upon him, the only combat skill he had ever seen worth mastering. Daily practice with his sword translated into this simple yet powerful parry. As the creature recoiled, Pacificus stood tall, his heart pounding. This was his domain, his sanctuary, and he would defend it with every ounce of strength he possessed.
The humongous creature landed on the ground, flailing desperately like a fish out of water. Well, technically, it was a fish out of water—a massive one at that.
"Oh no," Pacificus muttered, his eyes widening in concern. "It's not fishing season yet." He rushed to the giant fish, grabbing its jaws with his strong hands and heaving it back into the river.
Perhaps this giant fish would warn its kin next time. Perhaps it would caution other monsters against attacking the enormous human who lived near the river with his sprawling farm. But one thing was certain: this fish would never forget the experience. Then again, it was a fish, and who could truly know what a fish remembered?
With the immediate crisis averted, Pacificus returned to his duties. The river was dotted with rafts, tied together in such a way that they resembled floating islands. These interconnected rafts almost covered the river, sometimes creating a natural bridge to the other side.
Pacificus knew these rafts well; they were his father's legacy, a unique farming technique passed down through generations. With a practiced hand, he pulled a series of ropes connected to the rafts, making the islands shift and move.
To the untrained eye, it might appear that the giant human was pulling an island. But these rafts were not true islands. Each bush-like plant on the rafts grew in pots that didn't contain soil but river water. This innovative hydroponic system nurtured his precious crops: lettuces, spinaches, chives, radishes, tomatoes, mints, and herbs so potent that they could make an apothecary blush with excitement. There were also beans of various colors and sizes, but his favorites were the sprouting plants that resembled grass to the untrained eye. These were not mere grass; these were rice plants, specifically brown rice.
After inspecting and harvesting his crops he went to the nearest building to the river. The waterwheel. His father said it was made by his grandfather. He looks at the waterwheel that rarely stops at putting water atop of open pipes that went down towards his crops. That's not all, the water also went to a series of barrels, each one filled with different materials. The water of the river reminds him of tea, due to its color but once it passes the series of barrels the water that finally came out is crystal clear.
This is thanks to the series of barrels. Each barrel contaning different materials; One contains herbs. the other just rocks, the other one soil. the other sand, the next charcoal, the next is gravel and the last one containing different herbs. The water passes on each barrel creating a filtration system that gives Pacificus access to clean drinking water.
But of course such a system needs maintenance. A duty that he proudly maintains, for he may not met his grandfather he can't deny that his grandfather was an innovative man for this contraption was one of his legacies.
Observing the young man was a pair of deities. One, clad in light, had vines sprouting from her messy, chaotic yet organized hair. Her golden eyes brimmed with vigor, and her beauty was an uncanny blend of allure and terror. She watched Pacificus with a gentle smile, her presence radiating life and energy. Beside her stood a figure in dark robes, his eyes like two black holes, exuding an aura that seemed to swallow everything in its path.
"Thanatos, my dear," said the feminine figure clad in light and vines, her voice vibrant and life-giving. If a mortal were to hear it, their lifespan might even increase. "We never had children, yet it feels as if I am watching our own child."
The dark figure chuckled, a sound so chilling that it could cause a mortal to perish instantly. "Yes, my dearest Gaia," his voice whispered, emanating from all directions at once. "He is our champion. Remember when the farmer and his swordswoman wife came to your temple?"
"Ah, my consort," Gaia replied, her tone filled with nostalgia. "Those days have passed like a blink of an eye."
There was once a farmer and his wife who braved the wilderness, passing through untamed beasts and great nightmares. They ventured into the Ever Resting Forest, named after the countless adventurers who entered but never returned. The forest's reputation was well-earned, inhabited by beasts so vile that even demons and dragons feared its depths. Yet, the pair fearlessly journeyed into this dreaded forest with a single destination in mind: the temple of the forgotten God.
The temple was a colossal tree, its dark roots forming a cavernous entrance. The woman held a torch in one hand and a humongous sword in the other, while the man cradled something far more precious than his own life—their baby. The infant was frail, little more than a skeleton, clearly on the brink of death. Yet, the couple had braved this deadly forest, known for its ability to kill dragons, driven by a singular, desperate reason.
Before the deity of life, the couple fell to their knees, the roots and soil beneath them cold and unyielding. "Please save our child," they pleaded, their voices trembling with a mixture of hope and despair. "He is our only treasure. So please, save him."
In front of the couple is Gaia, the deity of life herself, her presence both awe-inspiring and humbling. Her hair, a twisting mass of vines adorned with thorns, leaves, and vibrant flowers, framed a face that held both the beauty of nature's bounty and the fierceness of its challenges. Her golden eyes, filled with the wisdom of eons, observed the farmer and his wife with a mix of surprise and compassion. Gaia's body was an embodiment of nature's resilience, made entirely of wood with an ember flickering at her chest, a symbol of the life force she embodied—chaotic yet harmoniously organized.
Behind Gaia stood Thanatos, the primordial deity of death, an unseen presence that lingered like a shadow. His form was veiled, hidden from mortal eyes, for even a glimpse of his true nature could extinguish life itself. Silent and contemplative, Thanatos observed the mortals who dared to venture into the heart of the Ever Resting Forest, his realm intertwined with Gaia's in an eternal dance of life and death.
Gaia, though outwardly composed, felt a stirring within her ancient heart. The forest surrounding them was a creation born of love between her and Thanatos, a sanctuary where they could share their fleeting moments together before fading into the annals of time. It was a place of beauty and peril, designed to preserve the balance between life and death in the natural order.
The couple before her had defied all expectations by reaching the temple, a feat few mortals dared to attempt. Gaia and Thanatos's gaze softened as they look at the infant, fragile and near death, cradled in the arms of his parents.
"Ahh" the two deities talk to themselves
"Parents" Thanatos whispers to Gaia "Real ones. Nothing is more admirable than them my love."
Gaia smiles. "Indeed" she replies to her lover "The fact that they have defied our expectations is proof of that. Or perhaps dear... we are simply getting old."
The pair chuckled at each other. The two deities look at the child on the couple's arms.
"Rise up and don't bow to a forgotten God, Son of Elion and Daughter of Idra. The two of you have come for my gifts and my blessings. You have defied expectations set up by Gods, that is more than enough for us to know that you are worthy of such gifts."
"Please don't give it to me" says the father "Give it our son. Give your blessings and your gifts to my son."
"Please... we are begging you. I would do anything to receive your gifts for our boy" says the mother
"We would do everything" the father pleads.
"Oh my, two gifts for one child." she chuckles, her laugh gentle yet unkind, respectful yet mocking "A parents love knows no bounds... All right then, the child shall have it."
The couple looks at the deity their eyes full of hope.
"But keep in mind... to keep the balance of the world, our gifts came with a price... a flaw if you will." she continues "I am a deity of life... death will always be behind me" Her voice now without contradiction says it so lovingly "If I bestow the gift of life, death too shall bestow his."
The couple looked horrified.
The deity lovingly giggles "The true gods gifted humanity with mortality. Yes death is a gift not a curse. And when death gives a gift it is not a curse." her eyes then looked at the couple her contradicting nature then shows itself again "To keep the balance of this world the gifts we gave to the mortals must contain a flaw. I Gaia the deity of life gives my gift to this child. He will grow strong, his potential will be the highest among his peers but in exchange he will grow slowly."
Thus Pacificus received the Gift of Potential: His talents will increased by more than tenfold however the gifts of experience he will receive are minimal, almost non existent.
Then it was Thanatos's turn. Unlike his lover he is not full of contradiction. He is straightforward and equal. For Thanatos sees all living things equally; whether it be evil or lawful, rich or poor, guilty or innocent, victim or perpetrator, all is equal in his eyes. He didn't show himself nor did he even show his shadow. But pacificus's parents felt a fear for their mortal lives when the deity of death himself gives their child a gift.
"You will be loved by destiny" he whispers to the baby's soul "But in exchange you will also be despised by it."
Thus Pacificus received another gift. The gift of Fate. He will be the most lucky yet unlucky person alive in this world. The strings of fate were attached to his name.
"As the blessed child of Gaia and Thanatos" Gaia continues her voice is like that of a man and woman, evil and good, guilty and innocent "We bestow upon you a name. Live and Die as a mortal, blessed child Azrael."
And that is how Pacificus received the blessings of two deities.
It was a solemn ritual, rooted in reverence and gratitude. Pacificus, now bearing the weight of his parents' teachings and the divine gifts bestowed upon him, lived a life intertwined with nature and solemnity. With every passing season, he tended to his farm with meticulous care, honoring the balance of life and death that Gaia and Thanatos had impressed upon him.
When the inevitable befell his father, Pacificus and his mother solemnly buried him in the earth he had tended so lovingly. There was no coffin, only the embrace of the soil that nourished their crops. Tears mingled with the soil as they bid farewell to a beloved patriarch, planting a tree as his gravestone—an enduring testament to his life and legacy.
Years later, when war claimed his mother, Pacificus faced the anguish with a heart both broken and resolute. Following the tradition set by his father's passing, he laid her to rest beside her beloved, under the shade of another tree. With each planting, he honored their memory, knowing that their spirits now rested peacefully beneath the blossoming field of flowers that adorned their graves.
In this sacred place, amidst the blossoms and the rustling leaves, Pacificus found solace in his prayers to Gaia and Thanatos. Their gifts had shaped his life, guiding him with a profound understanding of life's cycles and the interconnectedness of all things. He prayed not only for his parents but also for the world they had cherished—a world where balance and respect for nature reigned supreme.
As he stood among the flowers, his heart heavy with loss yet uplifted by faith, Pacificus knew that in honoring his parents' memory, he honored the ancient pact with the gods who had watched over him since birth. And in their silent embrace, amidst the fragrant blooms and whispering leaves, he found a measure of peace, knowing that their spirits lived on in the eternal dance of life and death.
Each morning, as the first rays of dawn kissed the horizon, he would stand at the edge of his farm, sword in hand, and begin his solitary training. For fifteen years, he focused solely on perfecting one move, honing it through countless repetitions against the untamed creatures of the Ever Resting Forest.
In the depths of the forest, amidst the shadows and haunting cries of beasts, Pacificus engaged in a dance of parries. His blade met claw and fang with precision, deflecting strikes without ever striking back. He viewed these creatures not as adversaries, but as companions in his quest for mastery. After each encounter, he returned to his farm, where he continued to refine his swordplay under the open sky, surrounded by rows of thriving crops.
To fortify his body and spirit, he followed a regimen of consuming small amounts of poisonous herbs and mushrooms—a practice steeped in the lore of assassins. Day by day, he built resistance, drawing strength from the toxins that would have felled lesser men. This disciplined approach mirrored his dedication to his craft and to the natural world that sustained him.
However, tragedy struck when a fatal blow inadvertently ended the life of a Dreaded Saurian during one of his practice sessions. Pacificus mourned the loss deeply, recognizing the sanctity of life even in the midst of his training. In reverence to the fallen beast, he vowed to cease his exercises in the forest, focusing his efforts solely on his farm.
Undeterred by the perplexity of the deities who observed his unconventional path, Pacificus continued to push the boundaries of his training. On the fertile soil of his farm, he wielded his oversized wooden sword with grace and purpose, mastering techniques that defied conventional martial norms. His determination led him to discover the impossible—parrying the very ground beneath him, a feat that defied the laws of the world and left even the deities bewildered.
Pacificus's relentless dedication to his training bore fruit beyond mortal comprehension. Despite the slow growth imposed by the Gift of Potential, his consistent efforts sculpted him into a figure of unparalleled strength and agility among mortals. His muscles swelled with power, honed not through brute force but through the finesse of his parrying techniques.
The Gift of Fate, however, ensured that Pacificus's journey was fraught with challenges. Time and again, he faced adversaries whose might surpassed his own, pushing him to the very limits of his skill. Each encounter tested not only his physical prowess but also his resolve and ingenuity.
As he continued to refine his art of deflection, Pacificus unwittingly tapped into a profound force—the mastery of Inertia itself. His ability to manipulate momentum and redirect force became a marvel that even the gods observed with admiration and envy. Such mastery defied the natural laws governing combat, elevating him to a status that mortals could scarcely comprehend.
Yet, in their wisdom, the true gods bestowed upon Pacificus a flaw, a balance to his extraordinary power. Despite his prowess in parrying and his mastery over Inertia, he was barred from learning any other combat skills. He could not initiate an attack unless provoked—an ironic limitation for one whose pacifism was central to his being.
To the deities who watched over him, Pacificus embodied the complexity of mortal aspirations and divine intervention. His journey, marked by discipline and humility, resonated with the eternal struggle for balance in the cosmos. His newfound abilities were both a testament to his tenacity and a reminder of the inherent limitations placed upon mortals by the divine order.
Thus, Pacificus stood as a singular figure in the annals of mortal history—a farmer who wielded the power to deflect fate itself, bound by the constraints of his own pacifistic principles and the blessings-turned-flaws bestowed upon him by the gods. His existence was a testament to the intricate dance of strength and restraint, a narrative woven into the fabric of creation itself.
Pacificus's morning routine was a familiar dance of reverence and responsibility. As the first rays of sunlight filtered through the canopy above, he concluded his prayers, a ritual steeped in gratitude and humility towards the deities who had blessed his life. With a calm demeanor born of years spent attuned to the rhythms of his farm, he turned his attention to the day's tasks.
Stepping into the cool confines of his underground chamber, Pacificus was enveloped by a world that echoed with the whispers of his ancestors. The labyrinthine structure, a testament to their ingenuity and foresight, sprawled beneath his modest home, its vastness unfathomable to those unfamiliar with its depths. Descending deeper into the earth, he navigated tunnels and corridors that wound like serpents, a silent testament to a time when conflict between gods had driven his forebears to seek refuge below ground.
The chamber, larger than his entire surface dwelling, housed not only his provisions but also a labyrinthine network of rooms and passages that hinted at a hidden city. Glowing mushrooms and bioluminescent plants bathed the labyrinth in a soft, ethereal light, casting shadows that danced upon walls adorned with gemstones that reflected and refracted the gentle illumination. It was a mesmerizing sight—a subterranean world where nature and ancient craftsmanship coalesced into a harmonious tableau.
Among the storerooms and alcoves, Pacificus meticulously inspected his stockpile of food, relieved to find no trace of mold or decay. He checked the mushroom farm, separated from the main storage by a makeshift barrier, its fungal bounty thriving in the underground humidity. The careful partitioning of spaces revealed the labyrinth's true expanse—a place where an entire community could have thrived, shielded from the tumult of the world above.
Pacificus marveled at the ingenuity of his ancestors as he navigated the depths of the underground labyrinth. The air was cool and damp, carrying echoes of a time long past when the world above was fraught with strife. He pondered how his great-great-great grandparents had conceived and constructed such a marvel, their motivations lost to time but their legacy enduring in the subterranean expanse.
For Pacificus, the underground chamber served a practical purpose, albeit one shrouded in mystery and family lore. It was primarily a storage facility, housing essential provisions like pemmican and hardtacks, sustenance that could withstand the test of time. These stalwart rations were crucial for his sustenance and survival, a testament to the foresight of those who had built the labyrinth as a refuge against uncertainty and conflict.
The chamber also safeguarded his homemade alcohol, brewed with care from ingredients cultivated on his farm above. Its presence below ground ensured a steady supply of spirits, a luxury amidst the solitude of the forest and the demands of farm life. Alongside these provisions, the mushrooms and herbs harvested from nearby chambers offered convenience, their proximity to the surface making them accessible for daily use.
Despite its practicality, Pacificus recognized that the underground marvel held deeper mysteries beyond its role as a storeroom. His parents had been skeptical of its origins, his mother dismissing tales of dwarven craftsmanship attributed to their ancestors, for his father bore no resemblance to the stout folk of legend.
After checking the underground marvel, Pacificus returned to the surface with a sense of contentment. However, his satisfaction quickly turned to horror as he inspected the trees bearing fruit. The fruits, not yet ripe, had begun to rot. Panic surged through him—he couldn't afford to be wasteful. Determination set in, and he sprang into action.
Pacificus moved with urgency, plucking every rotting fruit from the branches. His hands worked quickly and efficiently, sorting through the spoiled parts and saving whatever he could. Despite the frustration of seeing his hard work tainted, his resolve remained unshaken. If the fruits couldn't be salvaged as they were, he would ensure they found new purpose.
He meticulously cut away the rotting sections, leaving only the good parts. The idea of making wine came to him like a beacon of hope. The fruits, though not suitable for sale or fresh consumption, could still be transformed into something valuable. Pacificus gathered the salvaged pieces and brought them to his makeshift processing area.
He started by thoroughly washing the salvaged fruit pieces, removing any lingering dirt or insects. Once clean, he placed the fruits into a large wooden tub, where he began the labor-intensive process of crushing them. He used a sturdy wooden pestle, pressing down and twisting to break the fruits apart and release their juices. The air filled with the sweet and tangy aroma of mixed fruits, a scent that hinted at the promise of the wine to come.
With the juices extracted, Pacificus carefully strained the mixture through a cloth, separating the liquid from the pulp. He poured the strained juice into a large fermenting barrel, ensuring it was clean and free of any contaminants that could spoil the fermentation process.
Next, he reached for a large jar of honey, a precious sweetener for his wine. The golden liquid poured slowly, mixing with the fruit juices, adding a rich sweetness that would enhance the final product. He stirred the honey into the juice, making sure it dissolved completely and was evenly distributed.
With the juice and honey mixture ready, he added a small amount of yeast, which would kickstart the fermentation process. He covered the barrel with a cloth to allow the mixture to breathe while keeping out any unwanted particles or insects.
Satisfied with his work, Pacificus carried the fermenting barrels to his underground chamber. The cool, stable temperature of the underground storage was perfect for the fermentation process. He carefully placed the barrels on a sturdy shelf, ensuring they were secure and undisturbed.
The underground chamber, with its labyrinthine corridors and glowing mushrooms, offered an almost mystical environment for the wine to ferment. The barrels, now settled in their resting place, seemed to blend seamlessly with the ancient, subterranean surroundings.
Pacificus regularly checked on the fermenting wine, occasionally stirring it and ensuring everything was progressing smoothly. The initial disappointment faded as he focused on the task, turning potential waste into something meaningful. The process required patience and care, but he was used to such demands from his farming.
As he worked, a sense of calm washed over him. The rot had been a setback, but it also reminded him of the resilience and resourcefulness his parents had instilled in him. By the time he finished, the sun had started its descent, casting a golden glow over his farm. Pacificus looked at the barrels of fermenting fruit with a mix of relief and pride. He had managed to turn a potential disaster into an opportunity. Though the process had been exhausting, it was also a testament to his ability to adapt and persevere.
Pacificus knew he had honored the legacy of his ancestors, who had built their lives on ingenuity and determination. As he watched the first stars appear in the twilight sky, he whispered a prayer of gratitude to Gaia and Thanatos, thankful for the strength and wisdom they had bestowed upon him. The day's challenges had been met, and he was ready for whatever the next day would bring.